


weather eye

by Vintage (KyberHearts)



Series: set adrift [6]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Non-Linear Narrative, One Shot, Other, Sexual Content, angst? angst, gender neutral reader, mild violence, tws at the start of chapters if necessary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2019-11-18 15:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 23,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/Vintage
Summary: Collection for short Drifter drabblesor,Requests : CLOSED





	1. weather eye

**Author's Note:**

> instead of making many short works, i suppose i can just upload shorter pieces here as chapters ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
> 
> if yall want to leave a request/prompt, go ahead. this won't be the place for specific guardians or ocs but more for shorter, non-related drabbles  
> \---  
> NaluLovr03 asked if I could write something super sweet for the drifter and the guardian! Hope you enjoy <3

The alcove by the apartment window gives you the best and worst views of the Last City. Neon lights gleam in the downtown alleys and night venues; colorful banners flutter heavily from balconies and decommissioned radio towers whenever sparrow races dominate the streets; and on occasion, you can see fireteams rove the wreckage from the Red War, still searching for missing friends, whether Guardian or Ghost.

Everything seems muted with the steady downpour from dark, slate-gray skies. You’d sensed the weather in the tingle of Arc light across your skin, and the thought of rain and thunder thrills you. You can’t remember the last time it rained in the City. However, the storm follows you to the EDZ as you trawl flooded rivers for signs of the legendary Niobe labs. While, yes, Ada-1 can be caustic and waspish, you can’t deny that there are worthwhile secrets in the forges.

A call pings your comms. You recognize the serial identification easily and answer it. “Hey, hotshot,” the Drifter drawls. “D’you remember where I placed the, uh, whatchamacallit, the portal stabilizer spare parts? Power outage on the Rig is really killin’ the Gambit mood.”

You duck into the entrance of a Lost Sector, hoping that the shadows will cloak you from Fallen scouts. A huge, tattered purple flag hangs on the far wall. You can focus on the open link, and hear that the background is filled with whirring machinery and bass-heavy booming. “Spare parts? You used them to make the beta synthesizers. Remember? You nearly burned off your eyebrows. I was there.”

“Shit.” Drifter sighs frustratedly. Metal-on-metal rings loud and clear like he’d thrown a wrench or some other tool. “I’d ask Sloane for junk, ‘cept I feel like she would give me the boot instead. Just-- _wham!_ Right into the ocean.”

You laugh, and so does he.

His voice relaxes you-- Drifter doesn’t call you often, more out of necessity than want, but you savor the precious moments. What with the Praxic Order breathing down his neck, he is on high alert with Dredgens and Snitches around every corner. Smiling at some, scowling at others. You couldn’t imagine staring at him, stone-faced, as you declare loyalty to the investigation. Not that you could swear allegiance to anyone but the Drifter; like his emblem serpents, he’s coiled effortlessly in all aspects of your life.

You pick your way across the rocks and into a forked tunnel, wondering how many Guardians had walked the same path. “Bad weather on Titan? Same in Europe.”

“And I’ve got regulars talkin’ about irregular vortexes from halfway across the system. Mars, Mercury, Venus.” Drifter grunts as he yanks a shard of scrap metal from the portal engines. It responds with a defeated whine, and he glares angrily at the offending machine. “Some big guy’s idea of omens and doom. Pah.”

“No such thing as coincidence,” you say.

“I was about to say the same thing. Bet those Osiris chumps are conspirin’ like crazy.”

The tunnel ends and you step into a large cavern with high, sloping walls and paved ground. The ceiling is littered with strange, pale glowing lights reminiscent of the Taken. But there’s not Darkness lingering, just another mystery. You take Malfeasance from your holster and let it rest heavy in your hands. Its colors nearly match the cavern lights perfectly.

You lean against the wall and keep a weather eye on the outside downpour. Thunder and lightning crackles like a faraway memory. “Seems like a big storm on my end. I’m waiting in one of the Lost Sectors right now.”

Drifter snorts. “Playin’ it safe?”

“Something like that.” The call suddenly dissolves into more metal clanking and a string of foul curses in another language. You’ve been around Drifter long enough to pick up on some of the simpler expletives. “Having fun with your portal stabilizer?” you tease.

“Listen, if there’s no Gambit, there’s no Motes, and then what’s a guy gonna do? Twiddle his thumbs? Can’t do anythin’ til the power comes back.” He sighs heavily and sits down. Drifter runs a tired hand over his face, then yawns. “Any, uh, any progress on the Niobe labs? Got some literature if you have any more riddles to solve.”

“I just have to find another weapon core.”

“Bring me one if you find an extra, ‘kay? Might give these banks a little somethin’. Don’t worry: I won’t tell Ada-1.”

You smile inwardly. “Always scheming, aren’t you?”

“Might as well.” He rakes his eyes around the empty, desolate arena. Ozone crackles in the humid air, and if he closes his eyes, he could imagine himself in the EDZ. Caught in the storm. Next to you. Drifter toys with his jade pendant as he watches jumpships skate across the cerulean skies. “I wish you were here. Not for Gambit or Titan or anythin’, I just wish you were with me. And I just saw you last night. Dumb, right?”

“Why? I miss you, too.”

“Don’t let that Praxic Warlock hear you. She’ll throw you out of the airlock along with me.”

Malfeasance hums as you study its edges. You remember the gleam in his eyes when he’d given it to you. He was proud, and so were you. “You already have my heart, Drifter,” you say softly. “Everything else is easy. Loyalty, allegiance, whatever you want to call it. We’re a team.”

He squeezes his fist tightly around the pendant on its red string. “You think that we’re good for each other?” he asks.

“I do.”

“Me too, Guardian. I wish the rest of the system could see it.” The platform below him rumbles as electric and turbine power surges through the rig. The portal kickstarts into action and hums happily. Drifter doesn’t move from where he’s resting. Instead, he clears his throat and says, “You better be in one piece when I return to the Annex, darlin’. Tell that Ghost of yours. Stay safe, be brave, notorious, and all that stuff.”

“ _Notorious_ and _safe_ don’t go well together, Drifter,” you laugh. “But I’ll make it work. Just for you.”


	2. The Nine's Chosen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frostangel asked for hurt/comfort concerning the nine's recent interest in the guardian and it aligned with some ideas i had in mind for another story, so here it is :)

Drifter considers the miniature figures before him, then picks up the smallest pawn and squints at it in the low light. “So this one isn’t allowed to move backwards, huh?” he says with a trace of disappointment. He replaces the piece on the game board. “So many rules. Too easy to break ‘em.”

“It’s for strategy,” you reply, toying with a crowned figure as you scan the illegible, hand-written instructions. The smooth material reminds you of ivory or glass, but it is surprisingly heavy in your grasp. “Anyways, it’s a gift from Spider. He said that you might like it.”

“Oh?” The bearded man scans the table and then grabs an unassuming pawn. With a bit of fiddling, tongue caught between his teeth, he extracts a thin data drive no bigger than his thumb. You stare. Drifter laughs and tucks the contraband in his robes. “Seems like Spider made good on his word. Give him thanks from me, won’t you?”

“Please don’t use me as a courier for your illegal activities,” you sigh. “At least not without a profit.”

Drifter smirks. “Wanna beta the next batch of Gambit weapons?” Before you can reply, a sudden roar from the ship’s port echoes through _The Derelict_. “Is that the Reckoning portal?” he mutters. “There aren’t any scheduled events. And I removed transmat permissions. You expectin’ someone?” He meant the last part as a joke, but you stand and check your holstered weapons.

You pluck a card from subspace and hold it up. “Actually, someone’s expecting _me._ ” With a slight tilt, its holographic symbols gleam subtly: Three circles divided into nine.

“The Nine?” Drifter says faintly. He scrambles to his feet and throws on his robes as you head towards the portal. He leaps over the table, scattering the chess pieces, and follows fast on your heels. His mind is racing. “Wait, wait, how were you invited? Was it the Emissary? Did you talk to her?”

You climb the stairs, eager to meet these distant and mysterious creatures. “I’ve never met the Emissary. Xûr gave this to me. Strange fellow, but I like talking to him.” The alien spoke very little about the Nine who were viewed as deities to some. They possessed knowledge and power and it thrilled you. If you’d seen how the Drifter hesitates when he sees the Reckoning portal, alive and thrumming, you might have reconsidered the invite.

The whispers of Ascendance tease your skin with tendrils of Darkness and Light. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Guardian, I don’t like this,” he says quickly, shifting his eyes between the portal and you. “The Nine-- they are _not_ to be trusted.”

“It’s okay. I’m not scared.”

He grabs your hand. “Whatever they want to tell you, it can’t be worth riskin’ your mind.”

With a gentle smile, you kiss him on his cheek. Drifter allows himself to believe that it’s a sign that you agree to reconsider.

And then you slip from his grasp and leap through the portal as if you were invading or entering the Reckoning. Drifter should’ve known better: All Guardians seek victory at the other side. He makes a desperate lunge for you. Names not spoken in centuries are on the brink of leaping to life-- _Orin, Wu Ming, Hope_ \-- when the portal powers down. His hand closes around empty air.

You land on the white sands of the Ascendant Plane.

* * *

**Guardian,** the Emissary greets with unmoving lips.

You are not the first Lightbearer to meet with the liaison of the Nine nor shall you be the last. As long as the Sol System thrives, the Nine shall always invest their interests in preserving life. It is logical to assume that when men like Dredgen Hope tamper with Darkness, there should be some sort of warning. It is the Emissary’s mission to deliver such to those who outwardly ally with him.

And the Nine, who live in every atom and molecule, realize that you are unique in more than one way.

You are Light incarnate. You, who helped extinguish the Almighty. You, who woke up the Traveler, dormant since the Collapse. And now you linger so very near Darkness because Hope has your heart. The Nine reason, therefore, he possesses your Light, your legend, your influence.

The Emissary receives the ordain in the westward shift of constellations, and obeys.

You return to the dark, dark realm which you call your own, and she follows you. The Emissary watches as you nonchalantly brush dust off your robes when Dredgen Hope-- no, Drifter, she recalls-- emerges from the ship’s depths and envelops you in a crushing hug. He cups your face with his palms and slots his mouth against yours. Angrily, maddingly, desperately. Every part of him is aflame with fear as you soothe him with soft, crooning promises.

The Emissary gazes at you with new understanding. In some distant part of her mind, she is disappointed. The Nine is never wrong: He has your heart, and that will not stand by them. He has an arm slung around you as he regards the Emissary suspiciously. “They’re done talkin’,” he says firmly. “None of this should involve them.”

She ignores his feeble words. **Guardian, the Nine recognize your worthiness,** the Emissary says, **and they desire to show you more. Do you wish for it? Merciless judgement. Inevitable power. It is all within your reach.**

“No, no way,” Drifter seethes, but he cannot silence you.

Your voice trembles. “How?”

**Long ago, the Nine mended the rift in my mind. In return, I became their voice.**

“Don’t do this--”

 **Now, you are their chosen,** says the Emissary with a will which is not her own. **You will be so much, much more.**

“Orin, for gods’ sake--"

**You will be complete.**

Perhaps they will take the Guardian swiftly and quietly, as they had done with her. How long will it take to alter the Guardian’s complex? An eternity? Longer? The Emissary does not know, and it is not her right to know. The Emissary reads hesitation in the bone and marrow of the chosen, and yet it will not matter. The Nine will take what they deem necessary for their cause.

The Drifter pulls out his hand canon and thumbs back the hammer. “The Guardian ain’t a part of our deal.”

 **You assume that your destinies are linked,** she replies calmly, **while they intersect but once in aeons.**

“Not them,” Drifter says, shoulders shaking. He steps in between you and the Emissary. “Anyone but them.”

 **You will enter and leave each other’s lives. You will not be missed.** Who is she addressing? The Emissary herself does not know. Then she tilts her head as she reads a new message in the difference of a temperature degree within the vessel’s exhaust engines. While the man who calls himself Drifter is a potential threat, they will not deny his role in the apocalypse to come. **The Nine will return for their chosen. Goodbye, Guardian. Goodbye, Drifter.**

The Emissary vanishes without another word. Drifter slowly, slowly returns his canon back to the belt before he looks at you. He looks haggard and you long to brush away his regrets and doubts. Instead he shakes his head when you try to speak. “Don’t-- don’t tell me if you were gonna take their offer. It won’t matter. They’ll do whatever they like,” he says grimly.

His list of enemies grows longer and longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your requests! the muse is singing with inspiration ;)
> 
> EDIT: WHOOPS so i mixed up vale and hope jt should be fixed now!


	3. blind trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fallenobsidian asked what would happen if the guardian learned that the drifter's real name was Eli!
> 
> angst abound

“You realize, Guardian,” the Spider says, finally dragging his eyes away from your pouch full of glittering cores, “that the Drifter has his sights on you. Your fame, your prowess… I’ve heard all sorts of dangers. And knowledge is an easy price to pay.”

You seem to show no interest as you continue to sift through the basket of old, weathered simulation seeds. Perhaps you’re only here for business today, or you’re the type of Lightbearer who doesn’t care for rumors. Spider harrumphs and settles back in his seat, already bored, and he clasps his claws across his broad chest. The dozens of dead Ghost shells hanging from the ceiling rattle an ominous _click-clack-click-clack_ rhythm. Any Ghost with a sense of self-preservation would beg to leave this treasure-laden web.

To his mild surprise, you at last acknowledge his offer: “Whatever the Drifter has in mind, I find no reason to distrust him.”

One of his bodyguards emerge from the shadows and lets loose a string of guttural clicks and trills. “Speak of the devil,” Spider mutters, and you dimly wonder which Guardian taught him that human saying. Moments later, the man in his long, dark coat enters the lair with a large, bulging bag over one shoulder. “Drifter. How unexpected.”

“Just the way I like it,” Drifter replies breezily as he drops the bag and kicks it into the corner. His smug expression shifts to surprise when he recognizes your armor and colors. “Woah, woah. Guardian, this Shore ain’t big enough for the two of us,” he remarks as he sidles up to your side. “What’re you doin’ so far from home?”

“I could ask you the same,” you reply, transmatting away your helmet to openly smile at him. Drifter returns the grin, then kisses you on the cheek. “Oh, so you won’t kiss me in front of the Vanguard, but it’s okay if it’s Spider?” you scold lightly.

You both look at the seated Eliksni, whose many eyes are wide-- and then he doubles over with a roaring, throaty laugh which shakes the entire room. Drifter rolls his eyes and barks something in the Fallen language, his drawling, smooth voice suddenly raspy and warped. It sounds like a curse or a threat, but it only makes Spider laugh harder. Gripping the sides of his throne with huge, worn claws, he wheezes in his native tongue, “Oh, my dear Drifter, I heard you were after their potential, not-- well, _everything_.”

“Ain’t the first time you heard of two Lightbearers in a relationship,” Drifter snaps defensively.

“Yes, yes, but you’re not _any_ Lightbearer. You’re a scoundrel and a rogue, and they--” Spider crooks a talon at you, his eyes still locked on his long-time associate-- “are no ordinary Guardian. You think that they’re easy profit?”

The Drifter’s lips draw in a thin smile. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Right. How long will this, uh, sham last this time, hmm?” Spider asks mischievously, palming a painted shell in his many hands, acting as he holds all the cards in their banter.

Any mirth in his bright eyes has been replaced with something cold and dangerous. He replies, “You got the wrong idea, friend. Me and the Guardian-- it ain’t a ruse.”

“Of course, Eli. Or Hope, or Drifter, whichever.”

Afterwards, Drifter is quick to conclude business whether from ire or impatience, but misses the mischief behind Spider’s low chuckles chasing them to the surface. He also fails to see the conflict on your face before you replace the armored helmet. He takes your hand and leads you to the amethyst colors of the Tangled Shore, reminiscent of the Awoken Reef’s decommissioned post, and note the silhouette of Fallen and Scorn armies roving the horizon.

You summon your Ghost and review your current itinerary. “I’m off to the Gulch,” you tell him, watching as he crouches and plucks a few mutant spirals from the craggy rocks. “Reports of Scorn shenanigans.”

“You know there’s a stretch of meteorite ore on the east side? Said to have come from Io, but Ghost dated it as much, much older than the moon.” He stretches and places his hands on his hips, all smiles and confidence again.

Scuttling footsteps approach quickly from behind. Spider’s barbed guards darts up to you, gripping a netted sack of shards, and it grunts at you, tone questioning and curious. You try to refuse, but he continues to thrust it in your direction. Drifter feels the blood drain from his face when you respond in like, obviously fluent in the Fallen language, and finally thank him (and Spider) for the spontaneous gift.

You transmat it away into subspace and turn back to the stunned man. “Spider knows that I speak Eliksni,” you say casually, plucking at your sleeves.

“You…” Drifter clears his throat. “So you heard everythin’.” Then he scratches his beard irritably and swears under his breath. “I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna--"

“It’s okay,” you interrupt, shrugging nonchalantly. “Spider knows your secrets.”

Your sparrow shimmers into view and you hop on, gunning its solar engines as you test its balance. Drifter wishes he could see your expression-- though even if he can’t read your face, your body language is clear and obvious. You want to get far, far away from him and his history. “Let me explain. Spider’s known me for a long time but he--" he begins hastily.

“Where do you want to start?” you ask, calculated words biting into his conscience. “With the ‘sham’ with previous Guardians? Using others for your own gains? Like you do with Gambit? Or that your name is Hope or--”

“Eli.”

He thinks that the truth will temper your anger.

And he thinks, some part of him withers away, when you speak in a voice full of hurt and disappointment: “We barely know each other. I give you my trust without knowing anything about you, Drifter. Eli. Whoever. How long should I keep up this blind trust? ‘Til death do us Lightbearers part?”

“What do you want me to say?” he demands. “Whatever I do, I do it to survive.”

“I know.” You tighten your grip on the sparrow bars. “I like to forget.”

You race off to the Gulch; Drifter doesn’t follow. He knows that he must give you time to exhaust your frustration in simpler, violent ways. It’s days before you return to the Annex with a handful of completed bounties, and the two of you have a quiet conversation in the shadows, wary and resentful for vastly different reasons. But when he takes your hand, you don’t pull away.

He thinks, this is where the story ends.

* * *

The Spider smiles behind his mask.

“I knew you’d be back,” he says, leaning down as he studies your rigid, petite form. The white-knuckled grip around your holstered canon is not directed at him. Spider thrives on conflict. He beckons you closer, and you step closer. Good. Your curiosity is true. “All those questions. All those doubts. That man has more secrets than I have dead Ghosts.”

“How valid are your sources?”

“Incredibly so. Someone like me doesn’t last long without eyes in every corners of the system. I sense your bitterness. But Guardian, don’t you realize,” Spider purrs, “Knowledge is _such_ an easy price to pay.”

A moment passes.

“How much?” you ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Can't you see the giant that walks around you seeing through your petty lives?_  
>  _Do you think I do these things for real, I do these things just so I survive_  
>  \- I Spy by Pulp


	4. an unexpected party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyse requested World of Warcraft AU with Shin and Drifter!
> 
> I actually had a lot of fun writing this ^-^ I haven't played WoW in forever

You slowly rise from the hallowed ground, hands splayed in a sign of innocence and peace, as you stare at the hunter and the pistol aimed at you. A scarf shrouds the lower half of his face but you can see hatred in his dark eyes and furrowed expression. The rest of his body is shrouded in layers of gold-trimmed robes held together by belts and lightweight armor. He’d made absolutely no sound as he ambushed you. Even his voice is quiet, however younger than you’d expect, when he brusquely demands: “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I was sent by my mentor to investigate--” You wave a hand around the charred, smoking land which stretched for miles in every direction-- “this.”

His grip on the pistol tightens slightly. “Who’s your mentor?”

“Ikora Rey.”

“Do you have proof?”

You slowly peel back an outer fold of your coat to reveal the shimmering glyph woven with magic into the material. Acknowledging the emblem, the hunter’s stance relaxes. He doesn’t replace the gun in its holster but walks towards you without hostility. He glances over his shoulder to the early morning fog. In an instant, you know that this man has lived his life on the edge. Always on guard. But he respects Master Rey’s authority, which suggests that he’s familiar with the arcane field.

“Last night, the village was decimated by an order known as the Shadows of Yor,” the hunter says plainly, turning over a pile of burn logs with his boot.

You reach into your vest and seize a dove feather, speckled gray in color and age, and hold it in your palm. With a twitch of your head, the feather suddenly bursts into scorching white flames, though it does not burn you. The flame climbs and climbs, then darts off towards a collapsed structure with intent and purpose. The hunter follows close behind as you pursue the magic guide.

The white light hovers above a hastily made grave with a simple stone as its marker, and it chases away a murder of crows from their scavenging. The large corvids squawk and land in the distant trees, patiently waiting. You flick your hand and the light dives into the ground: Six feet under.

“You’re a necromancer,” the hunter murmurs in half-awe.

You fold your arms across your chest. “I mainly commune with the dead; others return life to them. My job is to ask the dead what happened before they passed.” The white light returns before long, shifting and twisting painfully, as if it was trying to remember what it was when it lived. The summoned spirit forms a mouth and a low, low moan escapes it. You clear your throat. “I apologize for disturbing your rest. I want to know what happened to your village and your people. Who were you when you lived?”

 _Elder,_ it wheezes, An _elder of the people. A cleric._

The hunter shudders, unused to the rattling chill of the recently returned. You continue: “Why did the Shadows attack your people?”

 _Looking… Looking for a man,_ the spirit groans. _Traitor… to their cause._ The figure was becoming more transparent with each passing second. You were running out of time.

Your last question burns in your chest, and the young hunter blurts it out, haunted by the same curiosity: “Who?”

 _He… sought refuge. We didn’t know from what… or from whom._ The dead man heaves a sigh. _He… called himself… ‘Drifter’._

And with that, the white light shivers and dissipates like a mist, sinking back into the grave for a final rest. You murmur a blessing for the deceased, then consider the revelations. “Drifter,” you echo, tasting the name on your lips. “I don’t--”

A single gunshot rings through the razed land and you instinctively duck your head, fingers crackling with defensive lightning. You peek at the hunter, whose smoking gun points at the scattered, screeching crows. Their raucous cries must be audible for miles.

“What the hell was that?” you yelp.

He scowls. “A warning shot.”

You watch as one of the crows abruptly descends and with a burst of swirling feathers and midnight black theurgy, a broad-shouldered, bearded man in burnt robes stumbles into view, grabbing his bleeding shoulder. He looks human, but his shapeshifting abilities likely marks him as a druid. Although without tokens or embellishments for a particular affinity or religion. He looks-- well, he looks like a--

“Drifter,” the hunter barks with an air of familiarity and ire, “Explain yourself.”

“Shin Malphur,” the man responds in like, however with a lazy drawl, “Figured you would show up. Y’know, it took most of my strength to change forms. Think your magic friend could help me?” He nods in your direction. You’d be happy to heal this strange, albeit nice man, but the hunter-- Shin-- gestures for you to wait.

“First, explain.”

“Well, the dead man pretty much said it all. Shadows did what they do best, though not before I escaped, only to be shot by some renegade hunter--” Drifter grumbles, and impatiently beckons you over. Shin reluctantly holsters his weapon while you pass your hands over the wound. You pretend not to notice how Drifter’s bright eyes rove over your tidy appearance. “Necromancer, huh? Rarity these days. You for hire?”

“Someone you’d like to talk to?” you guess.

“Nah. But I know people who’d pay good money to look past the veil.”

“We need to move quickly,” Shin interrupts, brushing past the two of you. “Now that your cover is blown, the Shadows will be wholly concentrated on finding you. Being a traitor is practically a death sentence and unfortunately, you're more useful alive. We need to make the week's journey to the Vanguard. They'll need to know what happened."

You feel a flutter in your stomach. Adventure calls. “Master Rey is a part of the Vanguard. I'll come with you.”

He nods. “I’d appreciate another set of eyes. Your arcana would be helpful.”

Drifter swivels his gaze from you and the hunter. “Hold up. You two are gonna protect me? Might as well hand me over to Yor himself.”

“Believe me, Drifter,” Shin says simply. “Given the chance, I’d kill you myself.”

“Feeling’s mutual, Malphur. Just not in front of our newest companion, all right?”


	5. Tapes #1 - #7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treatee requested an alternate version of the tapes left in the EDZ
> 
> this isn't directly related to the allegiance quest but focuses more on the guardian/drifter's personal relationship :^) lawd i could listen to this man talk allllll day

Tape #1:

“Hey, hotshot. I’m sendin’ you on one helluva scavenger hunt, so I’ll keep this first tape short. Yeah, I made you tapes-- but they’re for you and only you. I’ve been tryin’ to figure out the best way to talk with you. Every time we get face-to-face, whether on _Derelict_ or in the Annex, it never seems to be the right time. Maybe it’s because I’m afraid of what you might say. Or might not say.”

Tape #2:

“By the time you’re listenin’ to this message, I’m on the way back from the outer system. It’s been, oh, three weeks since we last saw each other. I reckon it’s given us some time to be apart and really reflect on where this… relationship is headin’. You, me, late nights, early mornings. Gambit, Prime, Doubles. Clothing optional. We been closer than I’d ever expected. I know some Guardians are givin’ us the side-eye. Or givin’ me the finger. They’re thinkin’, Drifter ain’t got business with someone as good and bright as you. Sometimes they’re right. Sometimes they’re wrong.”

Tape #3:

“Exhibit A: Once I nearly threw hands with the Titan scoundrel who tried to sneak motes out of the arena. Stealin’ motes is a big no-no. I might’ve kicked him to the seven circles of hell if you hadn’t stepped in. Exhibit B: You ended up fightin’ the guy because he insulted me. I’m proud of you, babe, but the Vanguard suspended you for weeks. Still proud. I think the point I’m tryin’ to make is that I never had someone stand up for me. I’d been alone for so long… it was nice to have company. Talkin’ and drinkin’ and trainin’ together. Sexy times optional.”

Tape #4:

“Dancin’ on the rooftops. D’you recall that? It must’ve been a couple of Dawnings past. You were wearing layers and layers of clothing because it was snowing, and I laughed. _This ain’t cold,_ I told you. _You don’t know what cold feels like_. But you told me that different people live by different thresholds. Yardsticks. Our experiences and personality dictate how much pain we can bear before we keel over, or how much injustice we tolerate before taking action. You told me that I could run until my legs gave out, and then keep runnin’. You were afraid that you would never catch up. So I slowed down-- and I think that’s when I started fallin’ for you.”

Tape #5:

“Halfway there. The universe is movin’ a bit quicker than I expected. Praxic Order, Malphur, and the Shadows are closin’ in from all angles and it’s time to assess my priorities. You should do the same. I once asked what would happened if we’d have a little bit of peace. Not a _when_ , just _if_ the opportunity came along. We were sitting about a hundred feet above the Dreaming City, legs hanging off the edge, weapons at our sides. And the wind was gentle. Yeah. I remember. You said that you’d like to find somewhere quiet to settle down. A home, a few plants, even a garden. Someplace… warm. And when you said that, I was thinkin’ that I don’t belong in that pretty picture. Nice to think about, though.”

Tape #6:

“Thing is, Guardian, the only way I can give you that dream is to put some distance between us. We’re like magnets. With enough space, we don’t have a problem being _you_ and being _me_. But once we inch past that barrier, the pull is-- overpowering. You want quiet days and green pastures, not dark, frigid nights on _The Derelict_. I know it: You shiver under the blankets. I’m still fallin’, I just realized that I can’t be selfish with you.”

Tape #7:

“Last tape. I’ll receive a ping when you decrypt the message. I should be back by now. Here goes: Vanguard needs you. The system needs your Light. I hope this doesn’t feel like an ultimatum. I’m more than willin’ to take a step back and put our relationship on the backburner while you kick the shit out of ancient gods. And we can continue this whenever you’re ready. If you think I’m spoutin’ nonsense, come to the Annex and I can give you the last tape. Otherwise, if I don’t see you in the next six hours, we’ll work on the distance. Like magnets. No explanation needed. This is-- give me the chance to do something good for you. That’s it, Ghost. Yeah, you can end the tape now.”


	6. Tape #8

The jade coin slips between his knuckles and clatters to the ground. It’s the first time he’s missed a coin trick in a long, long time but no one seems to pay attention. Past the gaggle of Guardians jeering and teasing each other, Drifter sits up to attention as you enter. You smile timidly; his heart beats faster, faster, til he’s certain it’ll burst from his chest.

“Everyone out,” he says, eyes still locked on you. “Closed for the day. Go on, get, you’ll get your kicks tomorrow.” Drifter shuts the door behind them. Unconvinced if this is reality or a dream, he watches you very carefully. He reads no anger or apprehension in your expression. Just wistfulness. The two of you circle around each other in the dimly lit room, the space between your mouths closing quickly before he suddenly pulls back. “You’re here,” he says finally. “Are you…”

“Upset? No. Perhaps confused, but I think I understand.” You drum your fingers along his chest, then remind, “You promised me one more tape.”

“Yeah. Yeah, the tape.” He pats down his coat and finds a weathered piece of paper, folded and creased too many times in the past few weeks. “Well, it’s-- I wrote it. Like they did in the past. Be nice, it’s my first love letter.”

Drifter wets his lips, takes a deep breath, and then reads aloud:

“Guardian--

“Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we met earlier in our lives. Then I remember that I have you, here and now, right besides me. And if I’m sweatin’ bullets and readin’ this aloud, it means that you wanted to stay with me, and I get to think, you were selfish, too. Stop me now if I’m wrong, but I want you, and you want me. We feel good when we’re together. I know _The Derelict_ don’t feel as lonely when you’re around; neither does the Annex or that dinky garage.”

His other hand slots against yours and squeezes lightly. He calls it a confession, but in your presence, it might as well be absolution.

“I don’t want to share you with the rest of the world. ‘Course, I can’t do much if you’re the only thing between us and the apocalypse.” He winks playfully, and you laugh; he’ll make you laugh every day if he survives this. Then the Drifter continues, “I can’t promise you a quiet home surrounded by rolling hills, but at least I can promise you the next best thing: I’ll keep you safe until then.”

He looks up from the paper. He strokes your cheek tenderly, lost in thought, as he scours every detail in your expression.

“I’ll find somewhere untouched by Darkness or Light just for you,” Drifter finishes. “I’ll make my Light burn to keep you warm. All those tapes-- I want you to know how much you mean to me, and you made me the luckiest guy in the goddamn universe.”

You sniffle.

“Don’t you start cryin’ or we’ll both be bawlin’ loud enough for everyone to hear. One more thing. Ready for this?” He offers an awkward grin and folds the letter. “Most important magic trick in my life.”

Drifter makes the paper vanish into thin air. In its place, pinched delicately between two fingers, is a familiar pendant. Twin snakes, glossy and emerald green, on a velvet red string. Identical to the one around his neck, dark and handsome against his pale robes. Drifter slips it over your head and then lifts the jade to his lips. He kisses it with reverence.

“That’s yours,” he says.

You surge forwards and kiss him full on his lips, overwhelmed by the affection for this man who loved you enough to burn, who would have set everything aside for your reservations-- and he wraps his arms around you, lifting and swinging you around the room, just like the first time you’d danced on the snowy rooftops. He laughs against your mouth, sweet and familiar. He can’t remember the last time he’d trusted someone so completely.

His palms fall to your serpent pendant, the symbol of eternity; he toys with the red string which binds your hearts together. “Yours,” Drifter whispers.

You kiss him again. “And you’re mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♥(ˆ⌣ˆԅ)


	7. false positive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PersephoneHemingway requested a pregnancy scare (which i've never done before so this was a challenge!) hope you like it~

The heavy rock music stops blasting through the Annex’s stronghold and Drifter rolls out from underneath the malfunctioning Mote bank, unaware of the oil streak across his forehead. He’s shed his heavy coat and pauldrons for a simple shirt and trousers, already stained and covered with metal shavings.

“What is it, Ghost?” he asks, scratching his nose with the end of a screwdriver. “A call from the Guardian? Go on, answer it.”

He rifles through a toolbox as the Ghost’s Light flickers, then opens the comms link.

“Drifter here. What’s cookin’, good lookin’?

“Could you stop by my place later?”

“No problem. I should be done with fixin’ this in an hour.” He frowns. “You okay? You sound stressed out.”

“Yeah I-- I just came back from a strike.” A pause. “My Ghost thinks there’s something different about my vitals.”

Drifter’s head snaps up and he rounds on his Ghost. It blinks innocently at him. _Don’t shoot the messenger,_ it seems to say.

He can picture you right now: nervously biting your lip, maybe tapping the hilt of your holstered revolver, or playing with the hem of your sleeve. Are you sick? His gut twists. “What _kind_ of different?” he asks.

“Come on over.” The comms link cuts off at your end.

Drifter immediately grabs his coat and crooks a finger at his Ghost, beckoning the red-eyed machine. It’s almost midnight in the Last City. He ends up at your doorstep, breathless, and you don’t meet his gaze when he enters the apartment. Pieces of armor litter the floor. You gesture to your obedient little Ghost as it flits around and scans you on occasion.

“Must be pretty serious,” Drifter comments as casually as he can, sinking down on the couch. He tries to keep his voice even. “You okay?”

You fold your arms across your chest. “After coming back from the strike, Ghost thought it detected two lifeforms. Mine and… another.” You carefully choose your words as you tell him, “Ghost thinks I might be pregnant.”

Drifter leans forward, all frowns and furrowed brow. “Pregnant? Sure it’s not--” he wiggles his fingers-- “like a parasite? Or a worm?”

“You’re… surprisingly calm about this.”

“Guardians ain’t ever had biological kids before. I think your Ghost’s broken.” He opens his palm and his silent one shimmers into view. “Let mine give it a go.”

With your permission, it goes over and begins a customary scan from head-to-toe. Chemical composition, biological levels-- everything necessary to assure that you’re in optimal health. His eyes slowly flicker between your face and your stomach.

“Even if you’ve got a bun in the oven, this ain’t the world I imagined for kids. Population’s already dwindling," Drifter says as he gathers you in his arms and seats you on his lap. You relax slightly as his Ghost casts its pale light over you. After a minute it withdraws and transmits a message to the nearest datapad. You’d never heard his Ghost speak before.

“Yeah, you’re completely normal,” he says. “Mine thinks that your Ghost might’ve gone through temporal radiation. Apparently, it’s known for duplicating results. Give it a few hours. It’ll be back to normal.”

You breathe a slow sigh. “Okay. Thanks.” You set your head against his shoulder and shut your eyes. His thumbs knead lightly against your hips. “I’m sort of embarrassed. I should’ve been like you. Skeptical,” you grumble.

“S’all right. No harm done.”

“And what if I really was… pregnant?”

“It ain’t healthy to hope for the impossible,” Drifter warns gently.

You don’t reply.

So he swallows the lump in his throat, holds you a little tighter, and admits, “I think about it sometimes. In the quiet moments. Lemme tell you, it turns to a nightmare real fast if you imagine tiny, teething versions of me. Traveler didn’t give us the ability to have kids; besides, we’d never have time for a family. We’re just s’posed to protect the rest of the world.”

“Think we’re doing a shit job anyways?” you mumble.

“I think you’re doin’ your best, darlin’.”


	8. inked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one is from my own inspiration! but really i think i'm in desperate need of another tattoo

Ada-1’s delicate touch flies over the keyboard as she calibrates the latest settings on the newly discovered Bergusia Forge. She pays no mind as you approach, tossing a weapon core between your hands. After a minute, she finally clears her throat and exits the program. “Set down the core on the table. Did you also manage to retrieve the bulk shipment from the hangar?”

“Yep,” you say and jab a thumb over your shoulder. “It’s waiting at the Annex garage. I figured you’d want to run some scans before bringing it into the lab.”

She sighs. “Thank you, Guardian.”

The petite, etched Exo held a strong distaste for Lightbearers and was even more distraught by the idea of a grungy, rougish man who calls himself Drifter becoming new next-door neighbors. There were certain perks: increased traffic, more visitors to her headquarters, and therefore greater accessibility to the forges’ legacies. Ada-1 simply maintained distance with pride and prejudice, ‘til you tended her mistrust.

She does not see you as a hero of the Red War, but someone who tempers Drifter’s sharp tongue and schemes. Ada-1 reasons this is only possible because he craves your affection.

You watch the garage lights dim as the vendor closes for the evening. “I’ve a message from Banshee,” you tell Ada-1. “He means to come and visit, perhaps exchange mods, but he keeps forgetting. It’s not his fault.”

“A weapon-smith with forty-four reboots must be exceptionally good at his job,” she offers, enunciating each syllable with poise and clarity. You’d complimented her for such whereas others call Ada-1 stiff and haughty. She tidies her leather-bound journals and returns them to a secure drawer. “The other half of the Tower does not appeal to my interests. He is recommended to come here instead.”

“I’ll let him know.” You wink. Your eyes linger on Ada-1’s porcelain exoskeleton. They were reminiscent of fine china. You knew which icons on her figure were hallmarks to the Black Armory, but you’d always wanted to ask: “Did you paint these yourself?”

Ada-1 relaxes against the workshop table and examines her forearms. The sapphire-blue trees resembled the species _Prunus serrulate_ , or otherwise known as the Japanese blossom. “I did.” She intertwines her fingers together, then inclines her head. “Am I to assume you are still interested in finding a tattooist?”

You grin sheepishly. It’d been something mentioned in passing, but Ada never lets anything escape her memory.

“Your curiosity piqued my own, I admit, and I studied the mechanics behind body art. I believe I could be your artist.”

It takes a few more weeks to plan and acquire the proper tools. Ada-1, in her eloquent yet blunt manner, asked Zavala directly about his tattoos to which he’d admitted with a certain blush on his heather-hued cheeks. The Light would prevent the ink from staying unless the Ghost was directly instructed to allow a natural healing process. That would mean, Commander Zavala warned, that the Guardian should have no access to the Light for several weeks or risk losing the ink. He seemed somewhat amused by the idea of the Black Armory leader wielding a tattoo gun (or perhaps, he’d missed the opportunity).

Initially the droning buzz made you flinch away, but you became more and more used to the idea as Ada-1 reassured you that she was a more-than adequate artist. And then you’d walked into the forge and she without warning ordered you to lie down on an empty bench.

“You’d still like something to commemorate the Drifter’s Gambit, yes?” she asks pointedly. “I have a design prepared. If you like it--” Ada hands you the template and your jaw drops in awe. Her eyes gleam with a smile. “I’ll take that as a yes. Now pick up your tablet and distract yourself. Practice your conjugation. This shouldn’t take long.”

Your Ghost rests in the crook of your neck as you scroll through the tablet, occasionally glancing to the smooth, fluid motions of Ada-1’s hands. The sharp lines of pain is minimal compared to everything you’d experienced in the past.

“Have you heard the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice?”

Ada loved the histories. Moreso if their truths were cast in doubt.

“They were slated to be married,” Ada-1 continues, voice barely audible above the tattoo gun. “Except on the morning of their wedding, a serpent sank its fangs into Eurydice and she fell. She fell all the way to the underground kingdom of Hades.”

Your Ghost hums softly, _je suis, tu es, il est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils sont_ , and you nod along.

“Orpheus managed to claw his way to the underground despite being still alive. He met the three-headed hellhound, the ferryman, and the queen and king of all dead. But Orpheus was a talented singer. He proved this in the court of the Hades. Moved by his lament and proclaimed love for Eurydice, they agreed to release her.”

_J’ai, tu as, il a, nous avons, vous avez, ils ont._

“There was simply one condition: Orpheus was not allowed to look at his lover until they were both out of the underground. And moments before she stepped back into the world of the living, he could not help himself and looked back in time to see her sink back into the darkness. Lost forever by a foolish impulse.”

“What happened afterwards?” you ask.

Ada hums. “Nymphs discovered him mourning loudly and rather obnoxiously, so decided to tear him limb from limb.” The pressure around your ankle lifts and a warm burn spreads across your skin. “We’re finished. A simple, yet novel design with no small amount of symbolism. I hope you’ll let it heal to its fullest.”

You sit up and examine the arching, scaled serpent as it winds up the side of your calf in intricate loops; the diamond-shaped head and its two gleaming fangs hover just above the Achilles’s heel. You thank Ada-1 profusely and she waves it away, unexpectedly pleased with her own work. Fine craftsmanship was to be expected, after all, from someone like her.


	9. dinner & diatribes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> b6l6u6e requested drifter and guardian going undercover at a fancy party!
> 
> title is a reference to the song "Dinner and Diatribes" by Hozier ^-^

The Drifter squints at the glossy invitation. “Our neighbor’s hosting a _soirée,_ huh?” he says, stressing the French word in his drawl, and then smirks. “I thought she didn’t like Guardians with their grubby hands and muddy boots all over her display cases.”

“We’re not going there to flirt and enjoy the champagne,” you remind him and pluck the card out of his hands. The neat, printed invitation addressed two titles well-known to the City: Drifter, and the Guardian. “Ada asked us to be her eyes and ears, and security if necessary. Thanks to your--”

“Our,” Drifter interjects.

“--our reputation, she thinks people are more likely to talk. Especially to you, for your notoriety.”

“You’re the one wearin’ Gambit armor, hon,” Drifter says smugly as he leans back in his chair. It teeters dangerously on two legs as he rocks back and forth with a jade coin singing in the air. True enough, your hard-earned gear gleams in the dim light of the Annex garage, and his eyes fix obsessively on the serpent designs.

You don’t berate Drifter for his black market contraband or underhanded deals, but it’s difficult to deny any aspect of him without obscuring the whole. Running a finger over the ink, you consider the implications of the ampersand; the meaning of being invited as a duo, as a pair, as a couple. Ada-1’s decisions are careful and measured; never for the sake of impulse. She has reason to believe there is a conspiracy to sabotage one of her forges. It would deny the Black Armory research, and deprive the City of their arsenal.

The coin dances across Drifter’s knuckles, then vanishes into thin air. “Miss Ada’s sure got a lot of confidence in us,” he remarks. “You ready for whatever happens?”

You shrug. “Most of my intel is gathered through violence. You’ll have to take point.”

“What makes you think that I’d have better luck in espionage?”

He doesn’t break his dark gaze from you as you plant your foot on the seat of his chair and bring all four legs back on the ground with a jarring _thud!_ The momentum throws him forward, but you catch him by the collar effortlessly. He’d close the distance between your mouths if it weren’t for your vise-like grip. “Because you’re not just a snake, Drifter,” you say as plainly and kindly as possible, “you’re also a chameleon. It’s perfect for this undercover sort of thing. No one, not even I, know your true colors.”

His lips tug upwards into a sheepish smile. “Darlin’,” Drifter says coyly, “You’re wearin’ them.”

The doors to the Black Armory were set to open at sundown. The exclusivity of Ada-1’s _soirée_ creates a buzz in the Tower as Guardians round on each other to discuss the rumored guests. The Vanguard were, of course, expected to make an appearance. Other names like Surya Hawthorne and Amanda Holliday were confirmed after an afternoon of active investigating. You maintained some degree of anonymity while you completed the rest of the day’s activities.

Invitations apparently extended all across the system.

“Oh, a familiar face at last,” says Petra Venj as she strides over and clasps forearms with you. Her ivory-white cloak spills over her shoulders and contrasts vividy with her dark hair and sleek outfit. She’s still wearing battle-ready armor but damn, she makes it work. “Glad to see you. While I highly doubt Ada would have invited Spider, I’ve since learned to expect the unexpected. You look good, Guardian.”

Black dress pants and a low-cut blouse were all you had in the closet. “The Vanguard doesn’t endorse formal wear,” you joke.

Petra chuckles. “None of my Corsairs would be caught in a gown,” she offers. Her burning, one-eyed gaze examines the crowd of guests. She continues, “And by the look of it, most here would be prepared to fight at a moment’s notice.”

You agree: The clear majority is the City’s Guardians, some of whom you’ve crossed paths with in Crucible, Gambit, and even on daily patrols. Static-filled chuckling sounds from across the room and you turn, seeing Banshee-44 wearing a less-than-threadbare shawl as he converses with Ada-1, flawless as always. Nearby, Lord Saladin swathed in a rich, golden cloak shakes hands with Ikora, the Warlock Vanguard who clearly has no qualms about brawling in a beautiful gown. Then Ana Bray with matching dark eyeshadow and lipstick comes bounding over to greet you.

“Petra, this is Ana Bray.” The two women compliment the other’s pristine, white cloaks.

You hear someone mumbling from behind (“Excuse me-- oh, pardon-- ‘scuse me--") and then Drifter settles a friendly hand on your shoulder. “Hey there, Guardian,” he greets. “Nice to see you out of Gambit play.” Having abandoned his dusty, stiff coat and pauldrons, he wears a dark green shirt with traditional frogs fasteners, and a loose jacket which drapes down his broad figure. His beard looks neater than usual. “You, uh, gonna introduce me to your friends?” he asks, nodding at the guests.

“Sure,” you say, somewhat stunned. “Um, Drifter, I’d like you to meet Petra Venj and Ana Bray. Petra served in Queen Mara’s court as--”

“Queen’s Wrath,” he finishes, smiling a smile that doesn’t entirely convince Petra of his friendliness.

“Ana Bray works with the Warmind, Rasputin,” you add. The dark-haired Hunter candidly studies Drifter from head-to-toe. He does the same, arching a bushy eyebrow, then breaks the silence first.

“Gunslinger?” Drifter guesses, and Ana beams. “Thought so. If you’re a Bray, that means you’re from a family of Golden Age scientists, right?” They slip into easy talk, though you think he’ll face a challenge if he tries to pry anything from the veteran Guardian. Petra Venj folds her arms across her chest and continues eyeing him suspiciously from a distance.

You watch as his eyes light up with excitement when he chats with Ana; they’re like-minded souls with vastly opposite philosophies. Ana carved two identities for herself as Guardian and Bray scientist while Drifter picks and chooses what to keep from his early Risen days. He finally secures an open invitation to visit Mars ( _and Rasputin, if he’s in the mood_ ). Ana then asks, “So what’s your deal, Drifter?”

He glances over to you and Petra, then back to Ana. “I, uh, do magic tricks most of the time.” The jade coins clinks lightly as he makes them jump, sing, and vanish. Even passing guests watch with mild interest as Drifter keeps pulling coins out of his ear. “But really,” he says humbly, gathering the coins back into his pocket, “I’m the one who runs Gambit.”

Out of the corner of your eye, Petra sets her jaw. “You’re the one who summons Taken from the Ascendant Plane,” she says quietly. “Dangerous ploy.”

He shrugs. “Patrollin’ around the Dreamin’ City is dangerous.”

“And whose fault will it be when you lose control over the Taken?”

“Mine,” the Drifter answers calmly, “and I’m to blame when Guardians defend your city, navigate the Ascendant Plane, or even wield Malfeasance against hordes and Blights. And if the Taken get a little antsy in Gambit?” He gestures to you. “This one knows how to handle it.”

Petra merely returns his gaze. “At least someone is keeping you in check,” she says finally.

Drifter winks at you, then looks away quickly when he remembers that the two of you are here for other reasons.

For you, it’s… absurdly inconvenient keeping up appearances. No one is supposed to know about your relationship with Drifter. It invites a whole host of issues from the Vanguard and opposing forces. He, too, struggles despite his centuries’ worth of experience, of pseudonyms and hidden motives. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and hold you close. Kiss you on the lips, the forehead, the cheek. Even making simple eye contact fades the rest of the world to shades of gray. He might be good at charming crowds, but he wants only your company.

Drifter eventually excuses himself to find Ada-1.

His hand-- bare and callused-- brushes against yours briefly. Like he’s saying, _I miss you._


	10. dinner & diatribes 02

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just a short sequel with plot i may or may not continue

After half an hour of mingling and talking about nothing, you at last seek a quiet spot away from the attention. Nursing a glass of pale, bubbly champagne, you glance up slightly as the Drifter slides into the seat next to you. He nudges you lightly with his elbow. “All okay?” he asks under his breath. “Anything suspicious?”

“Everything seems ordinary,” you murmur back. Under the table, his fingers search for your touch. He grips your hand gently yet firmly. You look at his clothes, then smile. “I wondered if you’d show up in a suit, but I think this looks good on you.”

He snorts. “A suit? I don’t think I could manage a button-down vest.” Drifter leans an elbow on the table and toys with the frog fastener on his collar. He inhales slowly, like he’s deep in thought, and then rolls his gaze over to you. “Didn’t think it’d be hard to keep… _us_ on the down-low. Even now,” he says as he squeezes your hand. “Why is this different than any other time we’ve been in public?”

“I think this is the first time anyone has ever acknowledged that we’re a pair,” you answer. “Ada’s invitation read, Drifter _and_ the Guardian.”

His thumb rubs slowly over the back of your hand, soothing and rhythmic.

“And now that we’re here… we have to be anything but together.”

“I wanna be good for you, Guardian. I don’t want people to lose faith in your Light just ‘cause you’re with me,” Drifter says quietly. “But y’know, I’m lookin’ forward to the day we don’t have to pretend.” He takes another deep breath. “I gotta go or else people are gonna notice. And, uh, that Exo with the light blue scarf? Keep an eye on ‘em. They look at their watch every few minutes.”

The parting words sends a prickle of anticipation through you. You scan the crowd casually as if you’re searching for a face while Drifter slips away subtly. You find the Exo chatting with a handful of other Guardians and true enough, they check their wristwatch as if they’re waiting for something. The Drifter’s dark head pops in and out of the sea of guests, then ends up near the Guardians. He greets them enthusiastically and claps them on the back, congratulating their most recent victory in Prime.

You ask your Ghost to run facial recognition; the Exo happens to be a Warlock with a significant track record with the Black Armory. They forged weapons often and led fireteams to defeat wardens and saboteurs. They were one of the first to wield the sniper rifle known as Izanami’s Burden, and struck devastation against other Guardians. It was clear why they were invited to Ada-1’s gala.

Drifter comments loudly, however unintelligible at this distance, then tugs down his collar to show off scores of scars, deep and claw-like. And because Guardians will be Guardians, the others begin to show off their battle wounds, too. You pay attention to the Exo who rolls up his sleeves. The Ghost’s medical records relay what you can’t see: They had their left forearm replaced after an incident in the Infinite Forest.

You discreetly pull up the image of the golden eye insignia emblazoned on their wrist. Before Ghost can confirm your suspicions, the Exo checks their watch once more, then hastily excuses themselves. Drifter makes eye contact with you for a moment, and then you’re both winding through the crowd towards the same destination. He slows down to alter your pace, charming his way into conversation, and you trail after the Exo into the main Annex halls.

You silently summon a sidearm out of subspace and carefully grip it close to your body. Linear path. Dim lighting. Many nooks and crannies, not to mention the open hangar down the flight of stairs.

There are too many escape routes.

Drifter appears to the right and presses a finger to his lips. Instead of bringing out a weapon, he holds out his hand and lets his Ghost scan the area. Its red eye roves the area, then slowly floats in the opposite direction. Drifter follows and after a moment’s hesitation, you do, too. The Ghost climbs a few steps and then nestles itself between tall, heavy storage shelves. The empty enclave is narrow however the Lightbearer shuffles in, then pulls you close to his body.

Your hands skim across his soft cotton clothes, detecting the telltale firmness of armor underneath. Drifter’s breath tickles your ear. “The Ghost detected fluctuations in the plane boundaries. Think of it like breaching the Ascendant Plane, except it’s a different dimension.”

“What? A portal to another dimension?”

“No, this-- I mean, not that sort of dimension. Less spatial, more time. Hey, Ghost, it’s too damn dark.”

His Ghost douses the two of you in a curtain of crimson light, and your breath hitches in your throat. You are exceptionally close to Drifter. This realization is also dawning on him as his eyes widen and his shoulders tense. Darkness should have created intimacy abound in quick breaths and wandering hands. Yet in the red glow, the two of you simply look at the other. _Your_ other. Then the Drifter leans forward and places a soft, loving kiss on your lips. It is gentle and hesitant and full of worship. Drifter presses his forehead against yours and then looks out into the silent hallway.

All noises from the Black Armory has stopped. No chatter, no clinking glasses, no sound.

“Ghost says certain areas in the Tower are immune to the continuum, thanks to the Traveler,” Drifter murmurs, helping you exit the cramped space. He idly runs a thumb across his bottom lip as he unholsters his hand canon; there's a love-hungry look in his bright eyes. “We should be unaffected. Seems like Miss Ada’s suspect ain’t from our time. My money’s on, uh, Vex-infected Exo.”


	11. anchor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FtfanDessarai requested a guardian-centered fic where they reflect on their feelings for drifter, plus a sweet moment between them!  
> \--  
> brief reference to Hozier's "From Eden"

There are moments which deserve silence, like the peace and calm after a long haul. As a Guardian, you might as well measure your life in moments of _ease_. Victory against Ghaul. Destroying Xol. Avenging Cayde-6. Wrought upon by violence and violence again-- that is, until you found someone who tempered the quiet as an eye of the storm.

The Drifter spends his days patiently waiting for his next apocalypse. He counts the Guardians which mill in and out of his Gambit, taking stock of those who have potential for trust. And you-- well, your Light scorches his expectations. He rounds on you with sly winks and wide smiles, meaning to lower your defenses. His steadfast ways assure you that although the times may change, he won’t. Eventually Drifter trips over his own willingness to know you better and inexplicably, he falls for you.

You’re his guiding light, and he’s your anchor.

 _There’s something wretched about this,_ you tell him in confidence, your hands against his chest, his on your waist, and Drifter merely laughs.

He spins you round, then catches you in his arms. His lips brush against your ear; he smells like smoke and sweat.

 _There’s somethin’ precious about this_ , he whispers.

You think that he’ll make a move, then Drifter releases his hold and playfully chases you out of the Annex. His Ghost’s music haunts the ensuing silence while you backpedal out of the Tower. Away from him, away from his snake charms.

Every wrong turn brings you back to him: A humiliating streak of defeats in Crucible, the Vanguard’s ever-increasing pressure on off-world responsibilities, and even the lack of better gear or armor against challenging opponents. Back to his incessant jade coins, his Gambit.

 _Silvertongue,_ you hiss as his fingers dance across your clenched knuckles, effortlessly interlacing his rough, gloved hands with yours.

Drifter seems pleased by the compliment. His other hand drags down your chin and removes the indignant proud tilt of your head.

 _Wanna make somethin’ of it?_ he teases.

The Taken Primeval rears its head back, then swipes indiscriminately against the fireteam doing their damnedest to burn it down. Its swing catches you in the gut and hurls you halfway across the map with too much momentum, and not enough time to stop-- you brace yourself but your body shatters against a rockface. You later trudge into the Annex, favoring your left side, with your cracked helmet tucked under an arm. It noisily joins a pile of ruined Guardian armor next to the rest of Drifter’s junk.

His touch roams your battered body, however feather-light, and his lips finds the soft curve of your neck.

Drifter murmurs, _When are you gonna realize that this isn’t a game?_

You think he’s talking about Gambit and its perils. And then his mouth slants against yours, slow and hesitant, as his feather-light fingers caress instances glimpsed between your armor. Unlike him, you don’t have a response for the jibe; you merely arch into his warm body. How strange. How _unexpected_. You don’t remember falling for him; in fact, you don’t know anything about him at all.

Except that he loves to talk about Gambit or Dark Age tech. Or that he picks up his rations at the exact same time every week, with a wink and a smile. Or how he throws his head back when he’s howling at some indelicate joke. Sometimes you find him, alone, listening to the Ghost’s soul music as he tinkers on the next big project. You discover which liquor he likes to drink, and why he likes to sleep in the frigid cold.

Most nights are spent at your apartment. You prefer the warmth; he entertains the illusion of having a home like this, perhaps one day. Most nights give way into pleasure from his willful mouth or your searing touch.

 _Does this feel good?_ you ask often, while tracing the deep scars on his back.

He presses your hand against his chapped lips and sighs. _Everythin’ about you feels good._

The man who calls himself Drifter groans love confessions into the pillows, and you tease him for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick note! i'm a little under the weather so if this or my next few chapters are incoherent, the cold's to blame lol
> 
> but i feel so incredibly grateful for all of your support for this fic and series ♥(ˆ⌣ˆԅ ) i'm humbled that my works might cheer someone up, or even inspire them. i really couldn't have done this without all of your kindness and love


	12. sword logic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owlz requested what would be drifter's reaction if the guardian was badly wounded, but then returned to see him >:)  
> \--  
> except for one instance, the guardian is intended to be whichever class you like. this part just contributed to a motif :3
> 
> tw blood, some violence

The comms link cuts off abruptly as you leap over the chasm dividing the Divilian Mists and the Spine of Keres. There’s no cause for panic; the constant turmoil of congregating realms tends to mess with the Ghosts’ receptions. While you would have enjoyed Drifter’s commentary as he mowed down the Taken for a specific ingredient, the two of you previously agreed to meet on _The Derelict_ once all was said and done.

You planned to run a few patrols with the Corsairs, but the curse hangs over the City, malicious and deadly. The Taken ravage its grounds for dominance; and while you’re stronger with each slain enemy, they never seem to cease. You wonder if this is a war of endurance. Who will preside, undying Guardians or relentless Taken? Or will the Dreaming City shatter before either? You want to fight for the City and Petra’s sake, so you might as well have an improvised trip to the Ascendant Plane.

Toland lazily paces around your head as you check the bowstring tension and handling. Alone in this challenge, you couldn’t risk simple blunders. His voice, dour and miserable, resonates through the hazy darkness; he is loud, intelligible, and the only guide in the forsaken realm. You might have called him sane except some of his monologues gingerly test the limits of lucidity. Decades trapped with the Hive and the Taken will do that to one’s mind.

Impatient by your slow preparation, he zips off to another section.

You follow the light.

Toland’s voice warbles through the bleakness: “Whose is the Light which binds to yours, Guardian?” You land heavily on a circular platform, then flick a few arrows at perched Vandals. Their struck forms shiver into nothing. Once the area is clear, you stand and glance at the ex-Warlock, condensed into a beacon in the darkness. “Whether you do not understand my question, or are unwilling to answer, it remains.”

“I can only assume you’re talking about the Drifter,” you reply, frowning slightly.

“I do not care for names,” Toland responds. “Only that he seeks what I wield.”

You crouch as a shard of the temples sails slowly past. “And what do you _wield_ , Toland?” you ask, echoing his vernacular.

He dances for a moment, then flees into the minute distance. You follow.

“The Sword Logic,” Toland explains, “As the basis of what and why the Hive and Taken are more alike than meets the eye. It is the idea that conquering the strong in turn makes you stronger. Your enemy’s death sharpens your blade; a thousand deaths, sharper still.” Toland hovers at eye-level, and you suspect that despite being incorporeal, he’s studying you very intently. “Do you recognize these principles in the one who names himself Drifter?”

True, Drifter does ramble a lot about the Darkness, but he doesn’t worship it. Not to the extreme which caused Toland’s exile from the Tower, and his eventual transformation into an orb of light who speaks in riddles. You nock an arrow, raise the bow, and aim at another Taken. The arrow flies straight and true.

You answer, “He’s a Lightbearer. The very principle should defy this logic. Besides, why are you telling me this, Toland? What’s the point?”

Toland’s aura blinks out, then reappears miles and miles below. Battling acrid winds and rotating masonry, you land on your hands on knees, breathless. One little misjudgment would have you plummeting to the depths. The final challenge looms in intermittent flashes of lightning: A Hive Wizard consumed by Darkness, emboldened in strange, hypnotic threads of gold amidst hues of Taken.

“Do you know where you are?” Toland asks. “Look around. Do you know where you’re going?”

“You’re my guide,” you wheeze, and force yourself to stand.

“So I will tell you this: The Drifter will wield Sword Logic, Guardian. Take care not to be on its receiving end. That is,” Toland adds as his light starts to fade away, “not unless you wish to feed his strength.”

Perhaps his words are meant to unsettle you. The incoherent philosophy of a madman should come as no stark epiphany, but his words linger in the same way Knights’ blades sink between your armor plates. The bow is useless in this battle; you hurriedly switch to a hand canon, jam it under an Acolyte’s chin, and squeeze the trigger. _Trust,_ you can imagine Drifter saying, as you shove the charred, smoking body out of the way, _Trust in a good weapon, and it’ll never let you down._

Streams of fire engulf you from all sides. The Wizard howls and raises more legions to overwhelm your lonesome. There’s no ammunition to be found. You briefly register something-- a rib, maybe two-- splintering underneath the brunt of the Thralls. Your Ghost is slow to heal, nervous as all hell, and is even more reluctant to show face.

You leap high above the clamoring horde, reach for that last shred of Light locked away in the winds, diminutive as a candle flame, wrap your hands around a hilt, and brandish the Dawnblade.

The radiant flames consume everything in their path. It engulfs the once-hallowed ground and you turn the Taken-Hive into ash with a single swing. It does not mend your bones nor does it ease the pain. Instead, the Light burns and blackens your gloves as you twist the sword into the Wizard’s chest, and watch it incinerate from inside-out. You collapse atop the disintegrating pile of enemies, clutching your gut as the adrenaline and Light slowly weans.

You manage just enough strength to look up and see Toland, flickering as brightly as the first time you met him.

Then the Queensfoil Tincture wears off and slams you back into the Dreaming City.

Everything still hurts. Each breath is laborious. The Ghost shimmers into view and your heart skips a beat as it trembles, badly shaken. A large crack splits down its center, skipping its eye, and part of its shell is missing. You collect it against your chest as it warbles about how a Thrall had thrashed it against a column, how it wasn’t fast enough-- apologies that don’t entirely register in your disorganized thoughts. It does, however, transmats you to _The Derelict_ , then immediately powers down.

Even Ghosts, like Guardians, need to recharge sometimes.

You trudge slowly through the vessel, seeking any semblance of comfort, and find it in the messy bunker. Tucked amidst a forest of alien greens and two feet of snow, you lean against the steel entrance with a tired smile. Drifter doesn’t look up as he sorts baryon boughs on the floor, but he hears your approach. “How was it, hotshot?” he asks breezily. He’s draped in Hunter wear save for the mask. The cloak, full and flush against the ground, show off crimson serpents. You’d initially fretted about going incognito, but he was confident that everyone and their grandma were flying Gambit colors these days. “Ready to head back to the City?”

“Sure.” You stifle a grimace, the turn your head away. The ache in your side numbs a little; perhaps Ghost is feeling slightly better, or the subzero environment soothes the inflamed wounds. It still feels like there’s a heavy weight compressed on your chest, but you ignore the pain. You ask, “Did you get your… whatever?”

He smiles as he triumphantly flicks his wrist and shows you the small bottle of Queensfoil. It gleams in the soft, yellowed light. “Yeah, it’s a real stickler to get,” Drifter says, returning it to his coat pocket. “I’d ask a Guardian to bring me some so I don’t have to bring _Derelict_ so far out, but you never know when someone’s tampered with it. Best if you get it from the Well itself. Only took a couple of runs.”

“Could’ve asked me.”

“I wish, but I just couldn’t risk it, darlin’.”

Black spots dance across your vision. “So… what’re you gonna do with the Queensfoil?” You think your words are slurring, but either you’re mistaken, or Drifter doesn’t notice. You sure hope it’s the former.

“Well,” Drifter says as he yanks off his gloves and tosses them in a corner, “it’s been a while since I’ve gone ascendant. Maybe some things have changed. I could look for more clues and secrets. Whatever helps me, helps the rest of my crew. I could even practice my shooting ‘gainst some other Primeval giant.” His tone turns smug. “Hey, I thought you didn’t like the cold.”

“It’s fine,” you murmur.

He keeps talking. “Besides, you never know what you’re gonna get over there. Keep hearin’ stories about this Guardian who got trapped there. Can’t remember the name, ‘cept he’s got a mad-on for the Hive and Darkness.” Drifter hums. “Might have a talk with ‘im.”

You taste metal in your mouth. Dragging a charred sleeve across your mouth, you stare blankly at the red smear. Though it’s hard to think-- or try anything else with a body which feels like it’s going to fall apart at the seams-- you might want to tell Drifter to quit the chit-chat and get to the Tower. You take a deep breath to settle your nerves, but you end up retching and doubling over.

Drifter’s on his feet in a flash.

Another cough paints the snow with blood.

Large hands seize you but his touch is bruising and you flinch away. It’s not his fault that you collapse from the pain when he forcibly pulls you inside the bunker. You’d apologize for ruining the beautiful snow or his clothes and sheets, which you’d inevitably stain in such proximity, but all he cares about is your Ghost. The cracked shell emerges from its pocket dimension. Drifter’s mouth is moving--

“What the hell is the matter?” he snarls. “Fix them! Can’t you fix them?”

\--but you don’t hear him.

“We were in the Ascendant Plane--”

“I don’t care--"

“The Light-- is _volatile_ \--" your Ghost quivers under his glare, yet whimpers out the rest-- “I might-- make it worse or--”

“Ghosts fix their Guardians,” Drifter growls. “That’s what you do, that’s what you’re _supposed_ to do.”

“You want me to risk-- _hurting_ them?”

The question gives him pause. His hands ball into fists, so angry and violent that even in the gray haze, you weakly reach for him. Drifter looks down at you with such hatred in his eyes that, for a moment, you actually _fear_ for your Ghost. As if he’d rip it apart or shoot it point-blank and hand you the pieces later. “Don’t-- hurt my Ghost--” you spit out. Even with blood in your teeth, you make for a fearsome sight.

The Ghost edges closer to you, with Light leaking from its cracks, but no longer afraid of the Drifter. It knows better than either of you that he could never intentionally hurt you. You might be caught in the coils of his Gambit, but you’ve got his heart on strings. He forces himself to calm, then grabs an emergency kit from his desk. He glares once more at the Ghost-- even though he distrusts them, it’s still the only thing that can bring you back.

“Do whatever you can,” Drifter says at last, “and I’ll take care of the rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> usually i try to keep it to 1k words but this might be the longest yet. oops.
> 
> good news! the cold is mostly done and gone-- thank you for the well wishes!


	13. uninvited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shadow requested "anything smutty"; ask and so ye shall receive :^)  
> \--  
> tw for sexual content (with hate sex vibes)
> 
> this fic features a guardian who didn't side with the drifter (whether unaligned or with the order) and while i'm, whoops, in love with drifter, i can see reason in aunor's suspicions. he is a shady bastard after all

An unwelcome visitor lounges on the balcony. His long coat in hues of verdant green and gambit leathers blends in well with the jungle of potted plants.

Your Ghost’s rusted quills shiver as it spots the figure, then ducks behind your shoulder. “Disappear for a while,” you tell it gently yet firmly. While physical confrontation is unlikely, its feed could pick up information vaguely admissible or incriminating for either party. Ghost transmats away without arguement.

Visible through the thick glass, Drifter leans against the railing with his arms folded tight across his chest. Behind him, the City descends into the twilight ease as clouds shroud the last remnants of sunset. He grins wide when you open the door and step outside. “Hey, Guardian,” he greets cheekily. “Didn’t see you all week long. Vanguard’s got you runnin’ all over the place?”

You don’t take the bait. Instead your fingers settle comfortably on the holstered hand canon. His bright eyes flicker down, then linger at the sight of The Last Word. His smile slips slightly. Damn, if that doesn’t make your heart leap into your throat. He doesn’t look as shaken as the first time you’d presented the Weapon of Sorrow, but there’s something else in his suddenly brooding expression. He looks upset. Maybe even flustered.

“You need to leave,” you tell him. “You’re not welcome in my home.”

“Wasn’t always like that.”

Your grip tightens and Drifter shifts, too. Action, meet reaction. He leans forward in a ready stance, a hand around his own weapon jammed in his waistband. Death whispers in the canons’ chamber, however each wielder hesitates to inflict harm on the other. The two of you are locked in a struggle for allegiance; Drifter himself reads it in your absence, loud and clear, and he feels like he has a right to know _why_.

“Day in, day out,” Drifter begins, “and you were always the best among my crew. You agreed that the Vanguard was frayin’ at its edges when Cayde died.”

Now that he’s talking face-to-face with you-- rather than a figment of his imagination-- all of his frustration and questions flood the quiet evening.

“You thrived in Gambit. I taught you how to wield against the Taken. We had _trust_ , so how come when accusations come knockin’, you’re the first to answer?”

Somewhere above, another tenant walks out on their balcony, chatting animatedly with their Ghost. Drifter surges past you and into your apartment, his robes brushing against yours with harsh indifference. “You were the one who asked me to pick sides,” you respond once the doors are shut, and all of the stringent tension comes alive in the enclosed space. You both circle like hounds straining at the end of their leashes. “Besides, the City is my home. All I have ever known is the Vanguard-- and I can’t turn away when they ask for my help.”

“You aren’t obliged--”

“No one has accused you of anything--”

“And still you’d snitch on me once my back’s turned?”

“You have never known loyalty,” you retort angrily. “You couldn’t possibly understand.”

He bristles. “And what’s that s’posed to mean?”

“Why do you think Guardians join you? Survival and profit-- that’s it. You wish they were as loyal as those to the Vanguard, but there are Guardians out there who abandoned the Dredgen name when the choice was made. At the end of the day, people leave you, or you kill them first.” The words sink in like daggers, and Drifter jerks back. Even your voice sounds too distant and cold to your ears; but like you said, carving his influence from your life is by your own free will.

“You think I’d kill you otherwise?”

Somehow the distance has closed and now you stand at opposite sides of the coffee table. It’s such an inefficient barrier for the exchanged glares. The lines on his face crease in deep frowns while he gripes about your fealty. You mutter, “Just because it’s not your finger on the trigger, it doesn’t mean you’re an innocent man.” Annoyed, you step around the table, jab a finger in his chest, and demand, “And if you’re truly guiltless, you have nothing to worry about. Let me do my goddamn job as a Guardian.”

Drifter barks a laugh. “You think the Vanguard is incorrigible? That Praxic Order--?” He shakes his head. “It’s all collapsin’. All of it. I’m tryin’ to help you, but _shit_ , you’re makin’ it really difficult.”

You flush angrily. “I’ve explained myself. Why are you still here? Why can’t you just accept this?”

Then his mouth crashes against yours, desperate and heavy, because conversation is a hopeless endeavor. When Drifter tries to pull away, you wind a fist in his hair and drag him back to your lips. His is an angry, maddened sort of kiss which brinks on hopeful; yours is bitter and as inflamed as an open wound. This is not your first shared kiss; it shall not be the last for this mutual, fatal attraction.

“Because,” Drifter manages to gasp as you shove him backwards on the couch, and then straddle him, “no one stirs my blood as hot as you do, Guardian.”

Weapons aside and fully clothed in armor and robes, you grind against his crotch and drink in each heady groan. You observe the way he throws his head back and shuts his eyes. His hands knead at your waist, wishing for contact past the layers of clothes. This allegiance affair paints sensations and emotions alike in a new perspective. Drifter whines something about stripping down, but you growl, “If you wanted to fuck me properly, maybe you shouldn’t have been lurkin’ on my balcony.”

“Call me-- _ah_ , desperate--” Drifter pants raggedly. He pulls off his glove with his teeth, then shakily palms down the length of your body. His touch lingers against your jawline for a moment before he teases the skin above your trousers. His eyes, wide and dilated, scrutinize you with a strange, bright affection. “C’mon, at least tell me that you missed _this_ \--”

The flirtatious drawl stifles when you wrap your lithe fingers around the bulge in his pants. He is more than willing to yield, and indulge in the offered pleasure. Whatever thoughts of duplicity might broil under his thick skin, the Drifter _craves_ you by his side. You make him feel complete in these delirious, vulnerable moments.

And you? This is your apartment, this is your home. You can chase an orgasm any other time, but watching Drifter completely unravel is exhilarating. Your high does not derive from physical pleasure: It comes when he chokes on your name and writhes in the presence of your unaltered Light. “You’re never gonna stop chasing me, are you?” you murmur, gripping him through cloth, and Drifter shudders. “Why?”

“I, ah, I-- won’t--”

“Even though it’s hopeless?”

He gives you a lopsided smile through the intermittent shudders which rock his entire frame. “Especially ‘cause I know it’s not-- fuck, _fuck_ \---” Drifter bucks up into your touch. “Fuck me-- Guardian, you’re killin’ me--"

He plants a messy, wet kiss on your lips, while he fumbles to unbuckle his belt. The rogue guides your hand into his pants and the first, real warm touch has your insides twisting with arousal.

“Gods, I _missed_ you--”

You inhale sharply as he croons your name, softly and sweetly, far too saccharine for his demeanor. You don’t remember if Drifter’s ever been so vocal before. “If I returned to the Annex or the Derelict,” you say bitterly, “then you’d talk non-stop about how I betrayed you. And if I’m not there, Drifter--” you stroke him hard and it takes him everything to not finish then and there-- “I can’t report to the Praxic Warlock. You should be thanking me.”

Panting, he eyes you warily. Hungrily. “Is that right?” Drifter wets his lips and he reaches for your belt. “You want me to jack you off, too?”

You roll your eyes, grab him by the beard, and kiss him as you steadily drag your palm along his cock, bracing yourself against his chest with your other hand. He groans into the crook of your neck when he finally cums, making a mess in his briefs and you continue stroking him until he’s crying out again, this time for mercy. The stained briefs will be hell later, but it’s just heaven now. He hazily raises his head and seeks out a kiss as delicious as the afterglow, and to his surprise, you remove yourself from his lap.

You toss his weapon at him, and Drifter barely manages to catch it. “You should leave,” you say quietly. “I’m tired. I want my Ghost back. You can’t stay.”

“Wh--”

“Sex doesn’t change anything. It’s a distraction, not a cure-all.” You pause at the threshold of your bedroom. You keep your gaze low and focused on the floor, unwilling and hesitant to look back at him. He’d looked so blissed out, so vulnerable under your hands; you can only imagine the sort of betrayed hurt on his face.

Names have a price: _Guardian, Drifter, Dredgen, Snitch_ ; they come with a reputation that’s not so easy to erase.

“I’m not gonna stop tryin’ to help you,” Drifter blurts out. His rasping promise is a wasted effort. And yet. “I have to-- I _want_ to help you.”

“Help yourself. If an investigation reveals that you’re a threat to the safety of everyone here,” you say, still refusing to turn around, “you’ll find no favors from me.”


	14. gambit comms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nemonus requested flirting over comms during Gambit! thanks for your patience <3
> 
> tw for super mild sexual content, cursing

“Uh-oh,” says the Sunbreaker Titan to your right, “Drifter’s making goo-goo eyes at you again.”

The other two Guardians whip around while you instead focus on equipping the last of your notorious armor. Yellow ochre snakes ripple as you stretch and test the traction on your boots. Your fireteam might as well be watching a tennis match with the way their gazes ricochet between you and the man in the long coat. You ignore the several pair of eyes on you, all of them curious, intrigued, and downright distracting. Drifter stops ogling long enough to transmat the teams to Nessus, and you sprint towards the incoming wave of enemies.

You’re the first to bank, and it just so happens to be enough to summon a Taken Knight. On cue, the comms link crackles in your ear. “Barely two minutes on the clock, and already banking fifteen?” Drifter purrs. “What’s the rush? Showin’ off for good ol’ Drifter?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the Warlock pretend to retch and throw up. “You’re, uh, broadcasting to the whole fireteam, Drifter,” the Hunter says as he deposits his own motes, then looks at you pointedly. _As if this shameless flirting is your fault._ You throw your hands up, and the Titan shakes their head sympathetically. Best case scenario: Drifter realizes his mistake, becomes embarrassed, and shuts up for the remainder of the game.

Instead, he answers, “Really? Well, y’all don’t mind us gossipin’, do you?”

“Oh my god,” the Warlock barks, “Get a room.”

“Good idea,” says Drifter, “How about it, Guardian? Grab a case, turn up the music, maybe I could help you with that armor--”

The Warlock promptly disconnects from the comms link, and so do the others.

Thousands of miles in the planet’s orbit aboard _The Derelict_ , Drifter snickers and leans back in his chair. He crosses his legs on the console as he sips from a thermos of broth. Three wide monitors of varying resolutions stream a live feed of the twin arenas. Bursts of colored energy flash through the room as Guardians wield their abilities against their single-minded enemies. “We feelin’ a little, uh, electric today, huh?” Drifter remarks as he watches you summon a fistful of lightning and send it hurtling across the map. A smile crawls on his lips.

You haven’t left the comms channel. You resign yourself to an uncomfortable (however much needed) conversation with him. “You’re distracting me, Drifter.”

“You’re doin’ _fine_ ,” he chuckles. The rogue idly plucks at his wiry beard, thumb and knuckles skating over his lips as if he’s lost in thought. “Just remember to pick up those motes.”

On some days, he’d be on the edge of his seat, howling over the comms as fireteams waver on the brink of victory and defeat. It’s such a fine line to define when death resets the Primeval’s health. To be so close to success-- to taste the infamy, only for a cruel, hapless mistake to erase progress. _It’s humiliating,_ some Guardians would complain, and he’d sneer right back, _It’s humblin’._

You revive the downed Hunter but a spray of bullets pierces your side and you slide behind cover, cursing under your breath as the pain ebbs and flows. Out of breath, your pants loud and heavy over the comms link. The barrage of gunfire continues overhead. “Get up, Guardian,” he mutters. He watches your vitals flicker like a cooling ember. “Get up. You’ve had worse hits.”

You take in a shuddering breath, then leap through the brief moments between violence, towards the Taken draining the bank. Breakneck empties its magazine into them. Reload, aim, and fire; rinse and repeat. Proximity to the mote bank returns your health and ammunition and you relish in the rewards of being a Sentry. Drifter breathes a silent sigh of relief. Your right hook decks the Knight flat on its back. It does not get up.

“Aren’t you supposed to watch the other Guardians too?” you wheeze.

“I thought I’d take a break. See how the teams function without positive reinforcement from ol’ Drifter.”

 _Invader on the field._ You tag him with a bullet, and the rest of your team descends upon them like famished wolves. “Some would say that you’re giving me an unfair advantage,” you tell him.

“What would you say?”

“Half the Tower already thinks that you’re too much of a coward to fuck me.”

You hear him splutter over comms; you hadn’t expected him to be caught off guard. Drifter meanwhile drags a sleeve across his mouth and sets down his thermos. His Ghost slowly blinks from atop one of the monitors. Not for the first time, he’s glad that it has nothing to say. “You talk to your Vanguard with that mouth?” he croaks. No response. Well, well, well. Maybe you have a bit of a rebellious streak. Cute. “So I’ve got a mad-on for you, hero, why do I care what the rest of the City thinks?”

Taken energy convulses in the thin air. “I think,” you say, flexing your fingers around the auto rifle, “that you should stop flirting with me if you don’t want to have a sincere relationship.”

The brief silence which follows makes you wonder if he’d disconnected.

Then his response comes, softer and more timid that usual: “And if I want-- you?”

“Then I guess we could have a drink together. Play some music, like you said. See where it goes from there.”

“Yeah. Okay. And, uh, I forgot to tell you, but you look _damn_ good in that armor.” Now that he’s actually committed to the idea of a relationship, this might be the first compliment that you’ve ever taken to heart. Then Drifter’s voice becomes smug, all hesitation gone in an instant. “Think it’ll look even better when I take it off?”

You abruptly end the comms link, blushing and flustered, because there’s no way you can kill the Primeval if he keeps talking like this.


	15. burn out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rose requested the drifter and/or guardian saying (or implying) they love each other, possibly with smut ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> tw for sexual content  
> this chapter describes the guardian with a vagina but otherwise continues to be gender-neutral

The Drifter spends more and more time on your ship ever since you’d lashed it to The Derelict.

It was agreed to never stray far from each other in these coming times. After losing the Hunter Vanguard, you couldn’t imagine how loss might affect the Drifter, someone who’s never had the courage to invite others into his life until you stumbled into his dinky little garage. Some mornings, you’ll wake to find him pacing the length of your ship as he admires the sleek insides or examines the command console. Other times, he’ll be curled up in an armchair with a tablet in his lap. He comes back late from Prime matches and sleepily presses his body against yours. You can read his affection in every casual brush of his lips against your cheek, or how he listens to your visions with ever-increasing concern.

You might have had a life before becoming a Guardian-- hell, you might’ve had a family or a home or someone to share your bed-- but this feels entirely new. You welcome it, and so does Drifter.

Ever since he’d accidentally surprised you and ended up with a new scar ( _First time I’d ever been shot by a bow,_ he joked) Drifter makes it a point to announce his arrival. Whether it’s a friendly Ghost or his coat hanging on the door, he makes an effort.

Distant music plays as you emerge from the bathroom, a towel cinched around your middle, and you see his familiar shadow dancing with the hall lights. You rifle through a drawer for fresh clothes. Pulling a shirt over your head, you feel a bristling kiss on the nape of your neck. “Evenin’,” Drifter murmurs as he sets two steaming mugs on the nightstand, then plants another kiss behind your ear.

You murmur back a greeting yet in the ease and calm of the bedroom. Neither of you feel pressured to force a conversation. Words come and go as they please. Drifter disappears into the washroom. You finish dressing and then throw yourself on the welcoming bed.

The past week had been incredibly busy. You’d grinded endlessly to lead fireteams in and out of strikes, even raided the Leviathan for emperor seals, and to top it all off, battled against the rising wave of the undead Fanatic’s legions. After dragging a dozen battered yet victorious Guardians back to the Tower, the Vanguard commanded you to take a rest. You were dangerously close to burnout, and with the ever-vulnerable system, no Guardian could afford to falter.

You take small, careful sips of the warm mulled wine which Drifter left by the bedside. You worry that his own drink will grow cold, so you warm your palms and heat up the spiced drink with a little Solar light. However, it turns you all too sensitive to the room temperature, cold leaching at your fading radiance.

Your breath hitches as another, distinct heat trickles through you. Now, really, who has the time to rub one out when you’re surrounded by kinder-Guardians? The Pyramidion doesn’t exactly make for a great setting. Perhaps it’s the safety of the bedroom, or the simple, cedar scent of Drifter’s beard oil which coaxes your fingers past your waistband. You let them rest against your sex, eyes closing as warmths meld.

The taste of mulled wine rests heavy on your tongue. You bite back a groan as your slow, patient touch brushes against your clit. These hands have wielded countless weapons; they should be rough and scarred and bruised, but the Ghost is too kind. The knuckles of your other hand press against your parted lips. Already you’re working a finger past the slick, impatient and eager, to seek the sought-after pleasure.

Drifter emerges suddenly from the washroom and half-heartedly towels off himself with a discarded shirt, then shakes his damp hair like a wet dog. “I was gonna go find more towels,” he says with a sly grin, “but you, uh, want some help?”

“Please,” you breathe, and Drifter slides himself on the bed. His mouth finds yours-- slow, languid, lazy. You run your hands down his naked chest, then meet his gaze with a smirk of your own. His half-hard cock rests heavy, and like the rest of him, is searing hot to the touch. “Maybe you need some help, too?”

He chuckles. “Nah. I just like hot showers.” Drifter moves down the length of your body and kisses your sex through the thin underwear, to which you hurriedly transmat away. The rogue lays an arm across your hips, hikes your leg over his shoulder, and offers you one more wink. He ducks his head down and parts your folds with his silver tongue, delving into your taste with ease and familiarity. Your fingers slip into his dark curls, and Drifter’s laugh washes his heated breath on your sensitive cunt.

You gasp his name and pull harder on his hair. His callused fingers dig into your thigh in the flash of desperate pain, then he kisses you apologetically, flicking across your clit as pleasure cradles you in its ebb and flow. Blood rushes to your cheeks and you urgently rock your hips against his mouth. Drifter glances upward with dark, hooded eyes. “You look good down there,” you pant.

“Not a bad view from this side, either,” he replies. You tug playfully at his ear, and his wet mouth caresses them with fleeting kisses. He lavishes your clit delicately; he acts oblivious to how your back arches off the mattress and finally, _finally_ slips his fingers inside you. He crooks them expertly while his mouth works at your swollen, throbbing clit.

“Drifter, I’m-- I’m so close--”

He eases another finger into you and _gods_ , it feels wonderful, you feel _full_ and his mouth is tireless as he works you to the brink, then shoves you over the edge-- you cry out and cum around his rough touch, into his grinning mouth.

Somewhere in the midst of gasping his name, you whimper _thank you_ and then his mouth slots against yours, searching and reverent. He takes in all of you: The blissed-out haze in your dark eyes, the soft, hesitant struggle to steady your breathing, the way you collapse into his arms, tracing his scars aimlessly. “Thank you,” you say again.

“You know I love you,” Drifter murmurs gently, “and I’d never hesitate to make love to you.”

“Really?”

“Really. I like to make you feel good. I like when you’re blushing all like this,” he says, brushing a thumb across your flushed cheeks, “and I like it when we, uh, talk afterwards.”

You peek up at him. “Pillow talk?”

“Sure.” Drifter kisses your forehead. “I like every moment when I’m with you.”

“You’re such a sap, I love you.”

Even though you’re in need of another shower, and the mulled wine has cooled, and with whatever else eternity has to offer, the two of you linger for a moment longer in each other’s embrace.


	16. vernal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nadine requested drifter with a non-guardian! i really liked the prompt, so here it is~

Spring is eager to bloom; it does not approach like the winter chill nor the gradual fall of autumn’s foilage, but comes alive in a matter of days. The rapidly warming weather coaxes the dead grass to renew, wild and untamed, and the bare tree branches sprout with white flowers and verdant leaves. For the first time since fall, one might see the rabbits and chipmunks again roam the campgrounds.

Life year-round on the Farm welcomes these fresh, new beginnings. Most refugees returned to the Last City after its liberation. Those who remained managed the balance between freedom from scrutiny and inter-community relations. The Farm would shudder to a standstill if there were any sort of conflicts. Some prided on their ability to mediate peace; others relished in the routine life.

City Guardians occasionally visit for the cryptarch, Tyra Karn, or spend their days-off kicking back with friendships forged in the war times. You know their faces, their armors, their weapons-- all from sitting cross-legged on the forest shade. The others say that you waste the hours away but there’s a looming anxiety lingering after the war. At least for a short time, you know who comes, who leaves, and who stays.

* * *

You think, leaning your cheek against the cool frame of your longbow, that this particular Ghost must have been damaged during the war. It’s a pity that some Guardians lost their Light-bound companion, and so they tread like glass under their feet, but you don’t think you’ve seen a red-eyed Ghost before. It doesn’t seem to speak to its charge, either, instead remaining out of sight and incognito. You only notice because, well, you like observing.

The Guardian observes you too, and he comes to tell you.

With raised eyebrows, you watch as he saunters over to your meadow patch, throw himself down on the ground, and let loose a long sigh. Dark-haired and bearded. Not too tall, but stout and stocky. His hooded gaze flickers over to you. They are bright, intelligent, however they don’t reflect the smile on his lips. He dresses like a Warlock: Long robe with intricate designs, catching iridescent shimmers in the late afternoon.

Arms tucked behind his head, he hums thoughtfully and says, “Wish I had me a spot like this. It’s like your own bit of Eden.”

The man asks for your name; he calls himself Eli.

Whether he’s looking for a quiet place to nap, or an excuse to avoid the other Guardians, you ignore him for the most part. His Ghost-- painted in hues as dark as juniper leaves-- peeks out of its subspace and nestles on the grass besides him. The dinner bell rings throughout the campgrounds and Eli shakes himself awake, with bits of dandelion seeds stuck in his hair.

It’s not until the two of you are halfway through the meal, breaking bread and dipping them in curry, when you wipe your hands clean and pluck the white dandelions out of his dark curls. Eli’s shoulders tense as you touch him, then relax after a moment, as if he’s telling himself to calm down. “Did you fight in the war?” you finally ask, the first question from your mouth.

“Which one?”

“Red War. Cabal.”

“Nah,” Eli replies, scraping the sides of his bowl with a piece of naan, “I was off-planet. Way, way beyond the system.”

“All by yourself?”

“Had a crew. Best of the best. We felt what happened to the Light, even all the way out there.” Eli chews for a minute, keeping his eyes on the distance. You wonder what he must have been like, before he was a Guardian. You wonder this about every Guardian you ever met. He clears his throat and sets down the bowl. “We had our share of violence. Could’ve used a bow like that one,” he adds, nodding at your heavy-frame weapon. “You a good shot?”

“Yes.”

Eli smiles. “You’ll have to show me sometime.”

During these weekend nights, the Guardians like to gather round a bonfire. They joke and drink and share stories while sharing enough blankets to completely cover the soccer field. You clock out of your sentry responsibilities and hitch your knapsack around your shoulders. As you pass through the incoming twilight, you see Eli still laying down in the meadow patch. Your feet bring you over to the stranger, his name on your tongue, and you stand over him. You mean to ask him if he needs a blanket.

Instead, you blurt out, “You can’t light a fire this close to the woods.”

He chuckles a little. “Your precious forest is safe. Cold don’t bother me.” Then he waves dismissively at the Guardians painted in the beautiful, terrifying firelight. One of them roars a drinking song at the top of their lungs. Their joy is contagious, but Eli rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Might not be able to sleep with these yahoos anyways.”

You shift your weight tentatively.

“You worried about me being by my lonesome?” he guesses.

“My lodgings are just down the trail,” you say, nodding towards a narrow path amidst the pines, “if you miss a roof over your head.”

Eli scratches his beard. He considers the offer and studies you again, although with none of the earlier tension, more so with appreciation. You wonder what kind of life had branded him to be act so impishly, yet be so afraid of everything else. Is he the type of man who deals in favors and debts? Does he think that you’ll demand payment in turn?

How little you know of him, and yet feel a kindred spirit. You nudge him gently with the tip of your boot. “C’mon. You can get warm by the stove,” you tell him gently.

Eli trails after you, ducking under low branches, as the short trek takes you to the cozy, one-room cabin you’d inherited from a past denizen. Despite the militaristic nature of the Farm, most residents had permanent lodgings in the surrounding woods for privacy and families. He hears clucking from the silhouetted coops with fences high enough to deter any predators. You have a vegetable garden, too, he notes.

You toss a match in the stovepipe oven and head to the washroom. A faucet shrieks and running water rumbles through the pipes in the ground. Eli hovers at the threshold, hands in his pockets, as he examines every little detail about your home. You open a small window above the sink and place a small dish of canned meat next to it. “Bed’s meant for one person,” you say, undoing your bracers and throwing them on the table, “otherwise you can sleep on the couch.”

Eli digs into his pockets and pulls out a coin. “Heads or tails,” he offers. “Your call, you stick with the bed.”

“Heads.”

He checks the toss. “Heads. Your bed.” Eli hands you the strange, green coin and you turn it over, looking for tricks or secrets. He washes quickly, sheds his coat, and then drapes it over him as he lies down on the couch. Toeing off his boots, he sighs, “Gotta say, this is much more comfortable than a bit of grass.”

The Lightbearer catches the coin when you flick it back at him. You pull your shirt over your head and his gaze lingers just a moment too long before he looks away, chewing the inside of his cheek.

The jade coin shows the Gambit snakes on one side, and is blank on the other. It’s easier to ask, _Heads or Tails,_ instead of _Snakes or Nothin’_ , so he sticks with the former. Framing it between his fingers, he says, “So, uh, I bet you don’t invite most Guardians over to your place.” He cranes his neck to look at you. “Unless you’ve got one of those bleedin’ hearts.”

Muddy boots land heavily near the entrance. Then your soft footsteps pad across the smooth, wooden floor. “Sometimes I see Guardians who like the Farm for what it is. Sanctuary. There are some Guardians who stayed after the war, you know,” you say, sitting at the edge of your bed. Eli glances over, then tries not to stare. You look incredibly different out of ranger gear, and it’s somewhat intimate to see you in regular clothes. “They lost their Ghost. When I saw yours, I thought perhaps--?”

“My Ghost? Nah, it’s not busted.” He laughs lowly. “It’s fucked up in a different way, but I understand what you’re sayin’. The Farm would be the place if I ever had the chance to retire. It’s _safe_ , and, uh, I haven’t been anywhere like that before.”

You frown. “Never?”

His lips twist in a smile. “I guess it’s partly my fault. I never stay too long. People like to call me a ‘drifter’.”

Pale moonbeams stream in through the open window; he thinks he sees the shadow of a cat, but perhaps he’s imagining things again. From the other side of the room, the stovepipe oven continues to fill the room with warmth and firelight. “Well,” you murmur from somewhere in the dark, “I don’t know if it’ll mean much to a drifter, but you’re always welcome at the Farm. Whether or not you have Light.”

Sheets crinkle in the darkness. Yes, he’d slipped away to the Farm for the barest moment away from attention, but he grovels in your kindness. You are an arrow nocked to the taut bow: Fletched and barbed. Wicked. Loyal. Striking where it hurts the most.

And then, an even softer-- “Good night, Eli.”

Drifter shuts his eyes and thinks, Perhaps his is the bleeding heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT : oh hey i forgot!! usually i post links at the end of major fics but since this is a wip, you can find me at [my tumblr](http://deviousmiracle88.tumblr.com)
> 
> hmu


	17. remind me, what was it--

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawtious requested the Drifter and Guardian fixing a mote bank together while sharing their experiences~
> 
> (it's 3 am, i might make edits tomorrow)

Hands on his hips, Drifter stares at the Titan-sized dent in the mote bank, and then glares at you.

“It was an accident.”

“Don’t even start,” he huffs, shaking his head, then beckons you to follow him.

You offered to pay for the damages, but Drifter has other things on his mind. “I owe you a prize for rank-up, and you owe me a set of helping hands,” he says. You haul over a few toolboxes and connect heavy, metal pipes from the bank to large generators. Everything looks as kit-bashed as his _Derelict_ or Ghost. Deceivingly flawless from a distance, and a complete frankenstein-like fright underneath the hood.

The swirling mass of Taken energy drains from the bank and into a spare glass container, much smaller and condensed than the mote bank itself. The container seems to groan and strain under the pressure of the Darkness. His annoyance with the broken machine melts into the easygoing comfort of repairing his legacy.

“I really am sorry,” you say as you dig around the crates for a replacement backlight. “It was a rough match. Neither of our Primevals went down easy, and having constant invaders didn’t help at all. I might have been, er, overzealous.”

From the other side of the bank, there’s a huge flash of light and Drifter scuttles back with scorched fingertips. He jams a handful of exposed wires into the bank underneath and slams the cover shut. Perhaps it’s less kit-bashed and more improvisation. “You’ve got a knack for breakin’ things, huh?” he jokes. “Hey, you’re the one who dismantled the Almighty, right? What did you do, ram it until it glitched out?”

You swat at him with an oil-stained rag. (He’s right.) Shoulders shaking with laugher, he tucks the cloth away in his pocket and goes to a nearby cooler. “Drink?” As much as Drifter likes to screw with the rules, he knows that open containers are a surefire way to attract attention. He hands you a bottle of pop (which likely lost all carbonation years ago) and snaps the cap off his own.

“For infamy leveling, I, uh, probably got some armor or weapons in one of these boxes,” he says, gesturing around. “Pick and choose. You want a Vex arm? I got a couple of those.”

You decline. How strange to have these oddities, or souvenirs, saved for scrap. “Any Ahamkara bones?”

“I wish. Hah! It’s out of my price range.” Drifter’s expression turns thoughtful and he says, “Shaxx flaunts a skull in front of all of his Crucible flags. Not that I’d blame him. It’s a mighty trophy. But I never agreed with the Vanguard’s idea of huntin’ them to extinction. The idea of punishin’ creatures for Guardians’ own desires is just a goddamn shame.”

Many of your role models had participated in the Great Hunt. “Where were you when they began?” you ask between sips of soda.

“Probably friskin’ around in one of the dead zones before the radiation became too much.”

“What was it like?”

Drifter raises his eyebrows. “A question like that needs some context. You been to the Farm recently? Notice how green and lush it is? Wasn’t like that when I woke up. Trees were uprooted, rivers bled dry. Massive buildings that used to mean somethin’ were just stone and dirt to us.” He comes to sit by you, kicking away a duffel bag to make room. “You got kids like Ana Bray who are lucky enough to wake up with a semblance of their past. Me, I woke up in clothes dressed for my own funeral. With these wide sleeves, right collar folded over the left. I thought that it had to be some kind of joke. From the get-go, it’s all learnin’ how to live again.

“And when you keeled over,” he continues,” a Ghost just forces you to get up.”

He slides off his headband and runs a hand through his black curls. Those bright eyes look so weary; you long to comfort him in the quiet of the Annex. Surrounded by metal scraps and sheets, your two Ghosts maintaining a respectful distance, you lay your head on his shoulder. You slide your hand into his, and Drifter squeezes lightly. “I woke up in the snow,” you tell him softly. “Surrounded by hundreds of old, broken cars on an abandoned highway. We-- well, I don’t know if I was alone, but we were going somewhere.”

“Somewhere warm?”

“Maybe. Maybe the climate was different back then.”

Drifter finishes his drink and tosses it in a crate. The soda might’ve lost all of its bubbles, but it is still sticky sweet on his lips. Yours remain half-full, half-forgotten, like the damaged mote bank.

“You know,” you say, closing your eyes for a brief moment, “someone must have loved you enough to bury you in nice clothes.”

“Yeah, right,” Drifter scoffs disbelievingly. “Tell you what. If I ever end up six feet under, you’ll put me in fancy clothes, too. And then you take my Ghost and pull it apart into teeny, tiny bits. Make sure it don’t ever come back and bring _me_ back.” He finishes with a hollow chuckle. You can’t believe anyone would talk so crassly about their Light-bound partner but when you glance over to his Ghost, it merely blinks slowly, as if returning the sentiment.

Part of you starts to understand why Drifter likes to tinker so much-- it distracts you from your mind, these lingering thoughts, as you create or repair something to call your own. One might not be able to fix their haunted emotions or bonds, but a synthesizer? Or set of cracked armor? With enough practice, it’s as easy as breathing.

Drifter then clears his throat and stands up. Your hand curls over empty air. The moment is over. It’s gone, buried and disguised as one of those half-dreams where the man with no name dares to show a vulnerable side. No one would believe it. Not even Drifter himself.

“C’mon, hero. Bank ain’t gonna fix itself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And oh my love remind me, what was it that I said?  
> I can't help but pull the earth around me, to make my bed  
> And oh my love remind me, what was it that I did?  
> \- Ship to Wreck by Florence + the Machine


	18. one-two-three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elipoli requested drifter worrying about the guardian being in danger thanks to malphur, aunor, and the nine!
> 
> this drabble ran away from me a little bit. the angst has a life of its own

Despite the nighttime chill of the dry, mountainous climate on Io, Drifter removes his long coat and _gi_ to reveal a sleeveless black shirt, tight-fitting to his lean figure. The inkling of a tattoo across his chest is glimpsed for a moment in firelight when he stokes the embers with a branch. His wicked eyes snag your gaze; the silver glimmer of phaseglass catches in his pale irses, and you nearly miss the way his jade pendant hangs dangerously close to the flames. “All right,” Drifter mumbles, breaking the trance first, and he yanks off his headband. “Enough dallying.”

Apparently, off-world activities included learning how to spar, when it’s Drifter’s turn to schedule vacations. You strip to your lightwear, kick off your boots, and pace along the stretch of empty desert. Bits of gravel and phaseglass bite into your soles but they eventually get used to the sensations. Drifter tosses you a heavy wooden pole, then raps you firmly with one of his own.

“We call this a _bō_ staff,” Drifter says. “And believe it or not, it’s hell to get past Tower security. They’ll let anyone with a semi walk through the walls as long as they’ve got the license, but a big fuckin’ stick? Nope.”

You test the weight and frankly, you’re surprised by how flexible it is. Drifter shows you how to hold it properly and he lets you practice wielding the unfamiliar pole with strong footwork. He’s soft-spoken but firm with teaching you the proper over- and under-handed grips. Then he shows you an easy disarming move, _in case you ever faced up another Lightbearer with an aficionado for martial arts,_ he jokes.

Drifter winks, and then you’re flat on your back. White spots dance across a vision of the creamy pastels of Jupiter. He leans on the two _bō_ staffs, grinning like Cheshire cat, then helps you up.

The first few parries make your hands numb but with practice, you learn how to absorb the brute force behind Drifter’s swift strikes. You can hear the metered rhythm of the waltz: one-two-three, one-two-three, block-dodge-strike, strike-jump-dodge, until you’re faster and faster and the sounds of the staffs cracking against each other ring for miles around. The smile never leaves Drifter’s lips though his brow furrows in concentration.

You manage to disarm him and he pivots, trying to sweep you off your feet-- _fool me once, shame on you_ \-- but you jump, then bring the _bō_ staff in a downward jab, stopping it moments before it touches his neck. Drifter, half-kneeling on the ground, slowly raises his hands up in surrender. You gently tilt his chin up with the end of the staff.

“Yield,” you demand.

His eyes are wide, pupils blown, and his smile has morphed into something of awe.

“I yield,” Drifter confesses. “Not bad. You ever think of startin’ up a fight club?”

You withdraw and lower the pole, sucking in deep breaths in the brief, victorious pause. “Why would we ever fight like _this_? I thought we moved away from sticks and stones and--”

Drifter _blinks_. He goddamn blinks like a goddamn Warlock and reappears behind you with a bear hug, pinning your arms to your side. Instinct for survival burns through you and you _twist_ and _grab_ and _throw_ him off your back, slamming him down on the ground with enough force to make your teeth rattle. As he struggles to catch his breath, you straddle his broad chest and rest the staff on your shoulders. He blinks hazily up at you.

“It’s not the Dark Ages anymore, Drifter,” you remind him gently. “We don’t have to make weapons out of fallen branches or--”

“I just--” he huffs-- “want you to be prepared.”

“For what?”

“Everythin’.” One of his hands rests on your hip and you tense, thinking he’ll try to grapple you again. He does not. “I’m-- I gotta make sure that you’re ready for this second Collapse, darlin’. You don’t understand what it’s like-- to be out on your own, fightin’ for your life.”

“Well,” you reply, trying to keep things on a lighter tone, “I’ll have you by my side, right?”

He doesn’t respond. Dread settles in your gut, worse than the times of watching the City burn or Xol rear from the depths of Mars. This is-- this is deeply personal, this is a man who could live forever, implying that--

“I might not be around,” Drifter says slowly.

“What do you mean? Is this about the Praxic Warlock? Aunor?”

Despite your questions, he doesn’t say another word until he has a moment to mull over his thoughts. He is contemplative as he figures out what and how to explain his imminent future. “I’ve got as many enemies as you have victories,” Drifter says slowly, stroking his beard. “Shin Malphur. Judge, jury, and executioner all by his lonesome. You got Aunor, who’s a real stickler to her Praxic rules. Now the Nine’s givin’ us visions about apocalyptic events.”

He looks at you strangely.

“There’s something very special about this, Guardian.”

“What?”

“All of these people-- Malphur, Aunor, the Nine-- want you as their ally. I mean, why not? And somehow, you’re on the shit list right next to me. I know you’re as stubborn as a mule,” he jokes, reaching over to grab your hand, “and you’re as loyal as a tick, so my enemies are yours. I don’t like it but if I’m not around to help you fight, you gotta be ready to defend yourself.”

You scowl. “I know how to fight.”

Drifter arches his eyebrows. “Okay. Then get up.” He pushes the _bō_ staff into your hands, grabs his, and then stands opposite to you. Dust clings to his dark clothes. You waver, unsure of the abrupt change in conversation, and he beckons you to swing. So you do: you surge forwards with your dominant foot, raise the staff, and swing towards him--

\--and he steps out of the way. His own staff tucked close to his chest, Drifter makes no grand or expert maneuvers as he sidesteps your vicious attacks. You miss every time. No resounding crack of wood on wood, no ragged pants, no quick flashes of sharp smiles. No conversation. No waltz. The triad pattern is absent, and so is the song of one-two-three, one-two-three.

You finally withdraw, arms aching, and stare at him. “I still don’t understand. What are you trying to say?”

“If someone gets a lucky shot at me and my Ghost--”

“Stop that. It’s not going to happen.”

“It’s a possibility.” He drops his staff and lets it roll away. Drifter shows you his empty hands. “What if I’m not around anymore?”

Your knuckles turn white, whiter on the staff. “Drifter, I can’t-- I _won’t_ \--”

He grabs you. His expression is fierce and pained, and then he pulls you into a tentative hug. “The only thing that matters is that you’re safe. I don’t want you to mourn for me, darl’. I love you too much to deserve grief. As long as you’re ready for whatever, as long as you’re prepared for a Collapse-- then I’ll rest easy, ‘kay?” You draw back and glare at him. “What’s with the pout?”

“My life is not worth more than yours!”

“I don’t deserve--”

“You-- you are a drifter and a rogue and a scoundrel, and whatever you do or don’t deserve, it’s not for either of us to decide. You can show me all of your Dark Ages tricks, and-- and how to fight with the _bō_ , but it doesn’t mean anything if you’re not there!”

His resounding silence drains the color from your face. He is ready to die. He is tired of the endless Light. He would let the Darkness envelope him in its cold arms; he would leave all of this behind, but not without leaving his mark on the world. Not without leaving a _scar_ of his absence. Drifter thinks he’ll leave it on a legacy of moral grays. You know that his death would prick like a thorn, deep in your soul.

The man cups your jaw and wipes away the few tears which betray the angry plea in your voice. “I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he says softly.

 _How do I say goodbye?_ Is it in smoke and mirrors, or the flash of gunpowder? Is it the last word, or the last breath to leave the body? Is it the last, sweet yet sleepy morning kiss between lovers?

At least he knows that you really loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _harsh, and sweet, and bitter to leave it all_  
>  \- Stay, I Pray You from Anastasia  
> \---  
> i'm working on replying to your lovely comments <3
> 
> in the meantime i'm out of town, recently obsessed with The Wolf Among Us, and on [my tumblr](http://deviousmiracle88.tumblr.com). and if you enjoy my content? consider swinging by the [ko-fi page](http://deviousmiracle88.tumblr.com/kofi)? i would love to open commissions for writing longer pieces for your ocs/guardians if there's enough interest. thanks for considering!


	19. ghosts in jade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *kicks down door* not dead yet   
> \--  
> Cloud requested that good ol' drifter/guardian fluff!

His is a leather-worn touch, with rough palms and neatly trimmed fingernails, and it is deliberate against the skin of your bare thighs. Slow. Unhurried. He digs firm, small circles against your tense muscles. Every twitch of his body against yours adds to the hazy clouds of affection on your mind and tongue. His is a gentle, knowing embrace, although you sometimes feed earnestness with timid pleas and ragged scratch marks down his already scarred back.

Drifter grins as he toys with the hem of your underwear. “Are you gonna, uh, take this off, or am I gonna have to ruin it?” he asks teasingly.

“Don’t you dare,” you grumble.

Chuckling, his fingers dart up to the collar of your candescent white coat, cooler and softer than any fabric he’d ever known. Drifter pushes the coat down your shoulders, eases your arms out of the wide sleeves, and lifts your right wrist to his mouth. Something like a groan escapes his parted, dry lips. “I thought you were mine,” he says softly, breathing in the scent of rainfall which seems to cling permanently to your new garments. “Weren’t you mine, Guardian?”

Your other hand hooks a few fingers into his belt loops. “I know you never met him, but the Speaker was… he was inspiring. He made sense of the world. He was the one closest to the Light.”

Drifter’s bright gaze meets yours for a fleeting moment. There is no accusation in his eyes, merely realization in the way you reminisce about the past. These were the foundations for your duty as a Guardian; the honored Speaker had pointed towards the Traveler and said, _This is your destiny._

Now, the Speaker commands from beyond the grave. Drifter had seen the testimonial, the handwriting messier than he would have anticipated from a scholar, of how the dead nominates you as his successor. You told the Drifter exactly as the Consensus did to you: An armful of folded robes and an angular, expressionless mask in colors of ivory white, ebony black.

You were downright elegant in such clothes, but in an instant, you were like a stranger to the Drifter. He does not want to know you as anyone other than the Guardian. _His_ Guardian. He is the snake shedding its skin and lies, and such namelessness does not suit you.

Donning the mantle of the Speaker introduces more challenges. You would become the head of the Consensus, mediating the crossfire between weaponized factions, and every word from your mouth would be measured carefully. Perhaps you inherited the past’s enemies. Perhaps you could mend relationships. There was so much power behind the mask: To forgive, to preach, to exile.

What are you to the man who resents the Traveler’s gift?

Drifter trails his fingers idly as you grasp his jade necklace and frame it in the space between your bodies. He told you once that it was dangerous to wear jade if you were superstitious. Sometimes they were cursed to bring bad luck by previous owners or were robbed from the dead. There were ghosts in jade, and they lingered. Simple decisions and simple actions will nip at your heels for as long as memory prevails.

“This ain’t somthin’ you can walk away from,” Drifter says quietly. “You’d be bound to the Tower. No more patrols. No more active duty. Bein’ Speaker could bring you more enemies. Another sick freak like Ghaul kidnappin’ you, or worse.”

“Are you worried?”

“Shucks, it’s not about me. If this is your callin’, there ain’t much I can do to stop you.” Drifter shrugs slightly. “Vanguard’s lucky to have someone like you to guide the old and new. You’re _the_ hero, darlin’. Just…” He exhales slowly through his nose and knocks his forehead against yours. “Just say that you’re still mine.”

Your eyes soften. “I have never loved anyone like I love you,” you admit. “I’m yours, love, and I always will be.”

None of his kisses lose their reverence. His mouth slants on top of yours, sweet and tender, and he shuts his eyes. Your thighs part wider when his hands resume their wanton caresses against the creamy skin. The man with no name picks you up in his arms then carries you over to the bedsheets, grey and crumpled from earlier. He lays you down as gently as one would for flowers on a fresh grave. Yet you breathe life in everything you do, whether it’s bringing hope or surviving by the skin of your teeth.

“I always knew you were brighter than the rest of us,” Drifter murmurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sweet and right and merciful  
> I'm all but washed  
> In the tide of her breathing  
> \- Cherry Wine by Hozier


	20. my heart's in atrophy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kara requested to see a jealous Drifter with a bit of Malphur!  
> \---  
> title is a reference to "Sedated" by Hozier (surprise surprise)

The Revelry comes swinging during the height of his Gambit Prime popularity and the Drifter is pleased with the arching theme of new beginnings and breaking rules. He even winks at Eva Levante whenever he emerges from the Annex, and he likes to think that her tight-lipped smile isn’t necessarily a bad omen. While he’s disappointed that his trademark, notorious armor is absent, the abrupt seasonal change is welcome. Much less restrictive than the Dawning with no need for forced favors or reminders of cold monoliths.

Bonfires dance in the twilights near the EDZ-Farm community with open invitations all across the system. The spirit of spring coaxes even the hardiest Guardians from their stations: Zavala and Ikora attend as a duo, reserved and sober yet smiling more since their friend’s passing; the Ghost, Sagira, is spotted by the May poles, ribboned in white and pink, although Osiris remains a mystery; and Drifter finally throws on a dusty coat and goes to see what was all the fuss about.

The music is old and charming. So is the drink and company of Guardians who celebrate this Beltane as if it were their last. They feed fallen branches into a massive, blazing fire as tall as the May poles. The contrast of the nighttime paints them like silhouettes, like shadow puppets against the flammable canvas. Drifter wanders listlessly without knowing why he is here.

He eventually finds himself at the edge of an untamed field. Dandelions both white and yellow sway in a brazen gale. He studies the makeshift shooting range-- built from leftover planks and tarps-- and the two Guardians, who raise strikingly similar weapons: The Last Word, one worn and grooved from age, the other not as much.

What a time, he thinks to himself, to wield Weapons of Sorrow without fear or apprehension.

Even from a distance, Drifter recognizes your figure. You're a regular at Gambit and its successor; he'd coaxed a few truths from you, and offered his trust in return. He doesn't know how to address the way his gaze strays to your lips or your hands, or why he longs for your honest company.

Giving you Malfeasance was a pivotal moment of trust-- at least, it was to him.

He watches you readjust your grip on the heavy, sleek handle of The Last Word, and he already knows that you’ll miss the mark. _Crack! Crack!_ It might have been in perfect harmony save for your inexperience. Drifter feels his lips twitch into a smirk. Every hot-headed Guardian thinks they can be the next Man with the Golden Gun, renowned for gunning down Shadows of Yor. Why else would they pursue his weapon? Why else would they consider its temptation?

Your opponent lowers his smoking gun and nods cordially at you. He is a Hunter, tall and lean, cloaked in pale, tawny colors. A glimpse of his profile reveals an owl-like mask with slitted, honeyed eyes. You smile sheepishly and tug at the ends of your sleeves.

Drifter watches, he watches as this Hunter holsters his canon and gestures at your own. His body moves of its own accord; he nears close enough to melt seamlessly with the crowd, yet to hear their quiet words.

There was no mistaking the voice, though he’d never imagined Shin Malphur could speak in a tender, kind tone.

The masked Hunter adjusts your balance to compensate for the powerful recoil. His white gloves skim over you as he gently corrects your shoulders and grip. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asks, taking note of your tense muscles.

“No.”

“Nervous?”

“A little.”

“Don’t be. The Last Word came to you.” A breathy sigh trickles from behind the mask. “Besides, I should be the one in awe.” Malphur ducks his head down to check your aim, the front of his robes brushing against your back. “The Traveler led you back to the Light. Out of all the living legends and the myths… It chose you. I’m honored that you would wield this legacy.”

Drifter is suddenly too warm, his face flushed with cherry red frustration and indignance broiling under his skin; he should shoot the Hunter where he stands. Not only has Malphur invaded on  _his_ territory, now he's much too close to _you_. But what can he do? Ruin the merrymaking with a gunfight, thanks to a long-standing grudge? You would never forgive him, and that's something that the Drifter cannot risk.

Drifter knows the tightness in his throat whenever he sees you pass through the Annex; he also remembers how you make him feel completely at ease. Maybe he’s brash to talk about your choice in guns. Maybe it’s just a conflict of interest. After all, Malfeasance means something to him. So does Thorn in his memories, heavier in all manners of weight and morals.

But when he sees the pristine gleam of The Last Word in your hands, Drifter knows, as much as he hates himself for it, that this is the basest, lowest form of jealousy.


	21. lacuna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> b6l6u6e requested something smutty with rope tying!
> 
> did you think i forgot after only 5 months? (´・ω・`)

His lips find the nape of your neck, tasting the tremors running through your body, then his hands trawl down. Descending each notch in your spine, the Drifter binds your stacked forearms behind your back, then finishes the intricate knots which dig comfortably into your skin.

He goes to stand in front of you, and his eyes fixate on the length of black, cotton rope encircled around your collar like a noose. His breathing grows quick and heavy as he relishes in the sight of your bare body. He wets his lips and takes a few steps back.

Drifter runs his thumb across your bottom lip, and his voice comes gruff and hoarse:

“Down.”

You obey immediately, kneeling down with your eyes fixed obsessively on his, until his other hand draws attention to his belt. He loosens his trousers and pushes them down. The dark-haired man guides his half-hard cock past your parted lips and a heady, low groan hisses from him as you suck him obediently.

Your eyes shut as he winds a hand in your hair and tugs you closer. It’s not long before he tastes of salty pre-cum, his flesh growing stiffer, longer with each passing minute. Drifter can’t help the occasional buck of his hips as your mouth works him to fullness.

“You’re doin’ so well,” he murmurs, “and you look so damn beautiful. Think you can take all of me?” You groan around him and bob your head forwards, intent on pleasuring his fantasies. Your shoulders twitch involuntarily as you strain against the ropes, frustrated but awfully aroused by his power play.

Drifter decides that you’re struggling too much for his liking, hooks a few fingers around your rope collar, and thrusts the last few inches of his cock down your throat.

“Behave,” he orders.

He eventually relaxes his grip so you can lavish him at your own pace: Often times you pull back completely to lap at the pre-cum leaking from the tip. You take his entire length again, constricting your lips around him until he drags himself away, unwilling to come just yet. Drifter notes how you squeeze your thighs together to relieve the budding warmth in your core.

“Drifter,” you finally whimper, tentatively placing salty kisses on his tanned, scarred skin, “will you touch me?”

He reaches down and grasps your chin. “Like this, love?”

“M-more.”

A wicked smile dances across his lips. “More? How greedy.”

But it is him who slots his famished mouth against yours with a deep, desperate kiss as if the hunger has consumed him.


	22. thunder under earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nemonus requested Guardian/Drifter relationship that isn't hidden at all from the Vanguard :3

Cayde-6 slides under the garage door, smashes into a pile of Eva’s forgotten carpet spools, and then lurches to his feet all while rambling nonstop. “Oh Drifter, listen buddy,” he babbles as he fixes his askew hood and armor, “we gotta have a talk about this cargo shipment coming in later, you gotta come with me or else Amanda’s gonna tear me a new one when she sees--"

Then Cayde looks up to see you and the Drifter seated at a small folding table, complete with dinner plates and candles and a vase with a rose, and his words stutter to a halt.

His mouth moves wordlessly for a few seconds as he tries to process what in fresh hell is happening in front of him.

Drifter looks irked. _He combed his hair,_ Cayde-6 dimly thinks, and nearly short-circuits. You, on the other hand, are trying your hardest to keep from laughing. “Hi, Cayde,” you greet with a too-wide smile and fold your hands on the checkered red-and-white tablecloth.

The Hunter Vanguard nods numbly at you. “Evenin’, Guardian.” Is it him or does his voice sound higher than usual? “Fancy seein’ you round these parts, I, uh, thought ol’ Drifter would-- Um. Is this a bad time?”

“Yes,” Drifter seethes at the same moment you say, “No.”

The neatly-dressed rogue Lightbearer kicks you under the table and you pretend to look offended. Then he stiffly gestures at the meal and says in a low, terse voice, “I’m a little busy, Cayde. I’m havin’ dinner with the Chosen One.”

“Yeah. Yeah, dinner, I see. Y’know, I heard about this great place southward that you two should really check out--” Drifter places a warning hand on his revolver, and Cayde-6 quickly backpedals, his mouth _still_ moving and talking-- “But I think I’m gonna let you two, uh, continue with your dinner, and I’ll come back at a later time--”

“Please.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Cayde-6 spins on his heel, smacks his horn on the gate, and then disappears with a litany of whispered curses.

* * *

“What is he doing--”

“I needed him,” you reply swiftly, tucking your helm under an arm.

“Relax, Zavala,” Drifter says breezily. “Besides, I’m expendable.”

You clear your throat noisily. While Zavala’s brow furrows and Drifter pretends to pick something from his teeth, you explain how your fireteam of six knew they were storming a sector with disabled radars. “Just so happens,” you say, glancing over at your companion, “Drifter’s scouted the area before as a potential Gambit arena so I asked him to guide us. He allowed us to escape through an unmarked exit without being followed.”

The Titan’s frown deepens. “Can the rest of your fireteam verify this?”

“They’re waiting to give you their full reports. If it’s necessary, you’ll have full access to my Ghost’s feed.”

Zavala inhales slowly through his nose, then sighs. With the chatter on all frequencies, he does not have time for subordination. But the honest look on your face and the twisted feeling in his gut tells him that you made the right call. He doubts the Drifter’s conviction to truly protect humanity from the depths of the universe, but he cannot question his loyalty to _you_. This makes his dangerous. This makes him an asset. A knight in the guise of a rogue, an unwarranted, unexpected ally on the playing field. Zavala understands the limits of what he can and cannot do as the Vanguard leader.

The problem with the Drifter is that he has no limits; he gets to pick and choose his way across the chess board.

“While this was not… officially sanctioned, I can overlook the error only because you vouch for the Drifter’s contribution.” Zavala’s gaze lingers once more at the sight of the rogue Lightbearer, then at you. He notes the Drifter’s subtle shift closer to your side. Every scorched mark on your armor matches a plasma burn on his mismatched ones.

He returns his attention to the holopad in front of him.

“Dismissed,” Zavala says, with much to think about.

* * *

_The Drifter is a writhing shadow painted against the graffiti-streaked halls of the Annex; and you, you are Light._

He’d just moved from the above-ground garage, and his Gambit banners are still pools of fabric on the newly swept floors. A maintenance bot happily chirps as he bumbles out the door and leaves the two of you in relative peace and quiet. The Drifter leans against the rusted rails and gazes at the swirling Taken energy within the kitbashed mote bank. Even with the heavy traffic of Guardians trekking in and out at all odd hours, no one has noticed that the pipes trailing from its base lead to nowhere.

“This might be the craziest thing yet,” he says to you, turning with a hint of mischief in his toothy smile. “It’s gonna be the next big thing.”

Then Drifter darts forward and wraps his arms around your waist, picking you up easily despite the heavy weapons strapped on your back. “Put me down!” you giggle, the laughter bubbling up like happiness spilling over the rim of a chalice. Drifter plants a sloppy kiss on your lips before he obliges, and then another mischievious, softer one as his hands wander down the front of your robes and hook around your old-fashioned belt.

The two of you break apart when your Ghost shimmers into view. It blinks owlishly at the way Drifter cradles you in his arms, and how you melt into embrace. “Ikora wants you,” it whispers, rapidly switching its gaze between you and your lover. “The Guardian, I mean. Not you, Drifter. Sorry.”

“She’s gonna have to get in line,” Drifter jokes. “I was here first.”

“Sorry. We were supposed to tell her about what we found in the Infinite Forest, and Ophiuchus told me that she’s super busy, and--”

“That’s okay,” you reassure the rambling Ghost, and then glance over at Drifter.

To your surprise, he simply links his gloved hand with yours. He winks. “I’m sure Ikora won’t mind if I tag along. Unless…?”

You wordlessly lead him out of the Annex, past the secrets and the stories confined to these lamp-lit tunnels, and into the light.


End file.
